


a succession of kings

by gulpsofoxygen



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, basically goong the fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28561959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gulpsofoxygen/pseuds/gulpsofoxygen
Summary: This is the story of Kim Junmyeon, the Crown Prince of Korea, and his dreams of Paris.(reuploaded from livejournal)
Relationships: Kim Jongdae | Chen/Kim Junmyeon | Suho
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	a succession of kings

**Author's Note:**

> About eight years ago, I posted this story on livejournal. Sometime after that, I took most of my fanfiction off the internet. I've had a few years to think that decision through, and I've come around to the conclusion that these stories were written for friends with whom I shared some pretty incredible years. They're time capsules. I don’t want to throw away those memories just because I don’t like how they look under close inspection almost a decade later. So if you're still out there: thank you. It was a blast.
> 
> I haven’t been able to reread this since the day I finished it in February 2013. If there are any trigger warnings that you think I should add, please let me know.
> 
>  **Warning** for offscreen bullying and homophobia.

_See nothing improper, hear nothing improper, say nothing improper, do nothing improper._

♙♟♙

Junmyeon picks SM's Art School over the Royal Academy because he's fourteen and likes photographs. He's never really liked anything else so it seems like an easy choice, especially tempting because school's the only reason he's allowed out of the palace these days, and the Royal Academy is only a few minutes’ drive from the _goong_. At first it's exciting, a novelty, turning up to classes where he's one of twenty other students seated in indiscriminate rows, where students are all given the same assignments and evaluations, where grades are delivered on the basis of merit, not birthright. For a few days, Junmyeon feels lost in a sea of people, anonymous, and free.

But it isn't until the second week of school that he realizes that everyone else is there because they want to become art majors in college or study videography or make films. Even the wealthy _chaebol_ sons he meets, even ministers’ sons have dreams of doing something like traveling the world, seeing thousands of different cultures and meeting thousands of new people and capturing it all on rolls of photographic paper.

And Junmyeon realizes, fourteen and absolutely gutted, that he's not free in the least. That regardless of that fact that they wear similar uniforms and share classes and swap desks, there's a difference between him and everyone else he meets; this is not a beginning for him. This is not a stage of life preparing him for his societal debut. This is his end--this is the last gasp of freedom he'll ever be allowed. Because the closest Junmyeon will ever get to the rest of the world is the film screening room in the main palace.

He remembers the moment quite clearly: sitting on his bed adorned with red-breasted white cranes symbolizing longevity, eyes trained on the windows with a beautiful view of gardens penned in by the thick walls of the _goong_ , palms open, cellphone next to his bed, the whine of, _"Junmyeon? Can you hear me?"_ repeating, an endless loop, a painful realization that when four boys who had excitedly introduced themselves that very first day of school and promised him a lifetime of excitement, he would never be able to capitalize on that.

 _We're going to Argentina for a week_ , Yifan had said. _You should come._

Junmyeon had been floored. "I am the Crown Prince," he'd heard himself say. "I can never leave the _goong_ except on official business. Unless I die."

The line had gone silent for a while. Yifan hadn't known what to say. Junmyeon had hung up, eventually, because there was really nothing he could say.

Still, it's nice to escape even if it's just for a few hours at a time, to be chauffeured around in his big black car with heavily tinted glass and the palace crest emblazoned on the doors. He rolls down the windows when his attendants aren't watching and takes photos of the street, of the insides of shopping malls and roads that lead to apartment complexes. And when he gets to school he leans out of the terrace and takes pictures of gum niblets stuck to the ground and overflowing trash bins. His friends don't mention his choices of subjects.

When he prints them out, he labels them carefully, methodically, and hangs them all up along his bedroom walls, edges overlapping, an explosion of honesty around the green painted trellises and golden mirrors and parchment paintings. He calls the collection _Longing._

The Queen is distinctly unimpressed.

She sends him a list of appropriate hobbies for a prince to cultivate, and recommends that he memorize it in time for the next feature interview he gives. It's long and filled with activities like _baduk_ and _changgi_ , neither of which Junmyeon knows how to play.

The internet turns up research, how-tos, and news of recent championships. And when a horde of reporters are invited to a hotel lobby where Junmyeon is artfully sprawled across a couch, every angle of his suit expertly tailored to emphasize the long lines of his body, he smiles and tells them about how he's anticipating the pan-Asian _baduk_ tournament taking place in Hokkaido this Spring, and mentions his admiration for both Lee Changho and Lee Sedol, two top-ranking Korean players.The reporters laugh and smile and ask him questions Junmyeon finds easy to answer, digging deeply into the construct of Crown Prince the Queen and Sunghwan have helped him create over the years. _His favorite colors are red, blue and white. His favorite pastimes are reading and fencing. His favorite scholars are Confucius and Wonhyo._

Ad infinitum.

At the end of the event, Junmyeon poses a few times for his fans, winking at cameras and grinning through the blinding flashes. The pictures come out well; the articles come out better. Sunghwan sends him a copy of each and every one, as per usual, for his review.

Junmyeon peeks at the headlines. _Our Exceptional Crown Prince--A True Defender of Traditional Korean Values_ and _Living History: A Tale of Tradition_. He skims through the glossy pages, strokes at the photoshopped images and their adoring captions, and then throws them out, tossing one after another into the bin in the corner of his room.

"You're not going to read them?" Sunghwan asks. "They were very favorable."

Junmyeon shrugs, letting the last one slip through his fingers, pages fanning into the air. He feels numb. "I don't enjoy reading fiction."

The chill in the room is palpable. Sunghwan takes a step back and bows deeply, leaving Junmyeon alone with his now overflowing garbage. "Yes, Your Highness. My apologies."

♙♟♙

Junmyeon hadn't honestly thought that turning nineteen could be worse than turning eighteen or seventeen. At seventeen he'd attended a handful of museum exhibitions in order to increase their traffic and promote cultural awareness, feet aching as he walked through thousands of hallways, smiling at thousands of onlookers, giving dozens of identical speeches about the importance of Korean nationalism in the face of an impending economic crisis and China's surge in global political importance. At eighteen he'd spent a week holding audiences in the palace courtyard with any citizen desirous of airing a grievance. Apparently, the Republic of Korea had quite a lot of unhappy constituents.

But at nineteen he's ambushed.

"I'm supposed to get married? Now?" Junmyeon's voice comes out delightfully smooth, for all his anger and incredulity. It's a testament to how well the Queen's trained him. "I'm still in school."

"The image of the Royal Family hasn't been very good recently, what with the recession and the scandal last year concerning the appropriateness of privately-held royal funds," the Queen Mother recites drolly, setting down her pale-pink china teacup, probably a relic from before the Joseon dynasty. "It'd be nice to give the people something to get excited over. A marriage at your age isn't that uncommon at all."

 _In Sejong's time, maybe not._ But Junmyeon inclines his head respectfully, setting his lips against his frustration. It's not worth the argument--it never is. As a child he might have bothered; at nineteen, he knows it's futile. "Yes, Your Highness."

"In fact," she continues, "we've selected the perfect partner for you. The grandchild of the late King's best friend--his only friend, really. They served in the military together, and he saved the King's life."

There's a silence. Junmyeon's father looks down at his tea. "It's very rare that kings have friends," he says softly. "It would be very noble of us to honor him this way."

The words slip through Junmyeon's consciousness. He nods rotely.

"Unless you have someone else in mind?" The Queen looks desperate, almost defiant. Junmyeon can't imagine why it even matters, why her sleeves are fluttering, why she might even be concerned that he marry someone he doesn't know when his entire life she's instructed him on the importance of creating a pristine façade for the media, regardless of his internal dissatisfaction.

He looks down at the cup of coffee he is not supposed to sip at in the presence of his elders--the Queen, King, and Queen Mother. Rule three-hundred and twenty. It joins the three other untouched drinks: all expensive, handpicked teas, all going to be tossed away at the conclusion of the meal. Another reminder of the absurd extravagance he finds so stifling about the _goong_.

Junmyeon realizes he can't even get angry anymore. "I need to think about it. Please." The Queen Mother frowns at his rudeness. "You can have three days. Either way, we'll have the wedding in November. It's an auspicious time for royal marriages."

Junmyeon bows his head, excusing himself, and the Queen laughs nervously.

"I am worried about how appropriate the match is," he hears her say as he leaves. "They're a very common family--"

"--all the better for our image," the King says. "We should be more careful these days."

A thought comes to him: dangerous, seditious, seductive.

♙♟♙

The Queen disapproves of the amount of time the Crown Prince spends outside of the palace, regardless of how often he tries to justify it with photographs and explanations of his school requirements. "I can't understand why you didn't just attend the Royal Academy," she chides, folding her sleeves back an inch to more gracefully brush against his latest addition to _Longing_.

Junmyeon can't say, _of course not_ or _have you even tried?_ , so he shrugs and ignores her. It gets easier to sublimate his irritation every year. He bites back less and less, and finds that sometimes he's not even angry. Sometimes the only reaction to her cold disinterest he can muster up is a deep, unyielding emptiness. Sometimes he stares at her and forgets to remember that at five she told him that one day, he would be King. And until then, he could do and dream of nothing else.

Sometimes Junmyeon looks at his mother, always picture-perfect, beautiful, calm, and collected, and thinks he's turning into her.

Capitulating, the Queen builds him a darkroom for his fifteenth birthday. It's neat and hides away in the back of his room behind an artificial wall, and he hates it. It takes him hours to put it together again after he trashes it one afternoon, desperate to return to the school studio where three people share a vat of developer, where chemicals splash onto sleeves as people jockey for better positions in front of the stop bath. Where it matters less that he's the Crown Prince and more that he's a student in someone's way.

The palace staff most likely tell her about his temper tantrum anyway. Nothing the Crown Prince does is a secret. Nothing ever can be, he knows--not when taxes fund his lifestyle. Even his diet is relevant to public welfare.

At night he looks up at the heavily gilded ceiling of his room and wonders how many Crown Princes have died in here, how many have felt the same oppressive captivity, how many have been dragged from their perfectly happy childhood memories of being second in line to becoming the heir apparent, to learning new forms of address, to never being allowed to call their mothers and fathers by name. He wonders how many Kings have been born to be unhappy. His chest seizes and he rolls over and tries not to throw up.

His blankets are thick and made of the same heavy silks as everything else in the _goong_. Discomfort itself is most likely a Korean tradition, Jumyeon thinks sardonically.

♙♟♙

_Three days._ There's one option. It's not a very good one, but none of the choices Junmyeon has at this point are particularly attractive. There's one contact in his phone on speed-dial. He swallows and thumbs the button cautiously.

She picks up after two rings. "What are you doing after school?"

"Nothing." He can hear her grin, and something in Junmyeon's chest loosens. "Why?"

"Meet me in one of the art studios."

She knows better than to verbalize anything; he's relieved, glad she's finally learned to exercise caution. After they both hang up, she texts him a number. _142_. First floor, all the way towards the western edge of the building. It's the best room in the Academy to watch the sun set. Both of them know that from experience.

Junmyeon smiles and almost dares to hope.

He gets there early, but she's even earlier, sitting on a desk with her plaid skirt hanging around her knees, sneakers kicking into the air, fingers securing her balance. "Hey."

She's the only one allowed to speak to him like that--informally, casually, intimately. He slides the door shut behind him and walks forward, hands falling into place behind his back. "I have to ask you something."

"You couldn't ask me over a text?"

"No." He could have, but he likes seeing her face, likes the way she looks directly at him, gaze unyielding. He likes the blush splashed expertly across her cheeks. He likes her carefully smudged eyeliner. He likes how effortless she makes perfection look. "I have to get married. I thought it might be better--more comfortable if it's you. Since we're friends." The words roll out as easily as one of his prepared responses in an interview. He grins again.

There's a long pause. In the distance, the wind appears to pick up. Trees sway, a few leaves disentangle from their respective branches and flutter across the landscape, disappearing into the impending darkness, melting into black, Taeyeon stops kicking at the air and looks at him, eyes full of surprise and disbelief, and Junmyeon can see that she's even swiped mascara across her bottom eyelashes. "Oh," she says very softly, "that isn't a question."

_Not a question._

It's amazing he can hear her over the sound of blood rushing to his ears and the roar of a distant wave exploding over the breakwater of his composure. But he can, and the words knot his stomach, nausea bubbling in his throat. His fists ball--it's an insecurity he's never managed to properly hide, and even now he notices it and coldly notes the failure as a place for further self-improvement. "And that isn't an answer."

Only it is. Junmyeon almost laughs. _Of course it is._

The sun is setting behind the bulletproof windows the palace had installed for his protection when he'd first started at SM--a full scale renovation requiring thousands of security upgrades to ensure the Crown Prince's physical safety. That hadn't been something he'd thought about at the age of fourteen when picking a place to study as far away from the palace as possible. He regrets it, now, wondering if the place had been old and beautiful before he'd gotten here, wiping it of its squeaking floorboards and cracking sliding doors. And yet, up until then he'd expected that the sacrifice had been worth it. The school had provided him with some respite from his duties for so many years. The school had been special and sacred and here he had always been alone. No bodyguards, no media.

But Junmyeon realizes, suddenly, crushed by the unnaturally pink hue that the sunset is taking through the treated glass, even here, even physically far away from the _goong_ , the claustrophobia of the crown is almost unbearable. He almost doesn't need bodyguards or assistants to train him into respectability and emotional self-restraint anymore. The deed's been done. The glass he sees sunsets through will never be clear or thin or untreated.

Junmyeon feels fourteen again. Fourteen and stupid for dreaming anything more.

_But._

He wonders what would happen if he leaned forward, abandoning propriety, and slid one hand up Taeyeon jawline, thumb pressed against the soft skin of her cheek, and kissed her. He wonders whether she'd realize what she was giving up right now. He wonders what the tabloids would say when they inevitably found out. He wonders whether the thousands of articles about his promising future would be sullied by the scandal, or whether Taeyeon would take the entirety of the hit. Whether they would be married after all. Whether the public would support that kind of narrative for their _darling_ Crown Prince.

The possibilities are dizzying. Junmyeon feels sick and stifled and trapped, almost like it's impossible to breathe. And, not for the first time, he remembers how alone he always is--even with Taeyeon. Perhaps especially with Taeyeon.

"I understand." He lets out a disingenuous laugh, timed perfectly, "I just figured it'd be better if it was a friend. But I wouldn't want to trap you in there either. You know how much I hate the palace. If you married me you'd never be able to be anything but a princess. At least out here you can still be a singer."

The justifications are endless. He's relieved when his lungs run out of air. He grins again, flashing the teeth he's found that his fans call _blindingly perfect_. This one is a practiced grin, so rehearsed it almost feels natural.

She leans forward and catches his sleeve between her fingers. They're beautiful fingers, long and thin and well-manicured. _Effortless_. "Junmyeon. Look, I'm sorry. You know how I feel about you, how I feel about music--"

And he does, he _does_ , but he thought he'd win in the end. He thought he could be more important than that. Junmyeon hadn't realized initially, but this is what he's always been waiting to ask her: will you choose me, in the end? If it comes down to me and the world, me and late-night wandering around the markets of Seoul, me and crowded aquariums on weekends, me and afternoons at the public beach, me and a concert hall packed with thousands of fans, me and _music_ \--will you pick me? Would _anyone_ pick me?

Junmyeon closes his eyes. His chest contracts tightly, and he almost can't breathe. _She'd said no._

Before he can move away, settling into the distance he's supposed to keep with commoners, the people he's supposed to trick into thinking he's smooth and confident and consistent, he hears three trills, three tinny rings, three sounds echoing in the supposedly empty school corridor.

He stiffens. Instantly, all of his senses seem to sharpen. "Who's there?"

 _Media?_ No one answers him. The school, for all it feels as self-contained and oppressive as the palace, is not burdened with hundreds of ladies-in-waiting stationed behind every column to accede to any request. Panic floods his chest, compressing his ribs. _Had someone heard?_ He gets to his feet and lunges through the door, grabbing at the shoulder of someone already in the process of making an escape. His heart rate spikes, relishing the distraction.

"Don't," he grunts, pulling at the body, sliding his hand down an arm, past a bunched-up sweater and a badly folded shirt cuff until his fingers are around the offender's wrist, "don't you run away. Who are you? What did you hear?"

There's no response. The boy jerks his hand away roughly, but Junmyeon is stronger and angrier and the Crown fucking Prince, how _dare_ anyone refuse his command. When he throws open the door and grabs the offender once again by the wrist, spinning him around with ease, he meets bright brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a head of mussed hair.

"Who are you?" Junmyeon seethes. " _Answer me_. Don't you know who I am?"

"You're hurting me! This isn't your school--if you want to propose to your girlfriend maybe you should get a hotel room or something."

Junmyeon twists the wrist a bit more sharply. Muscles conditioned by years of fencing lessons protest the unexpected movement. "Don't you dare tell anyone else what you've heard."

Taeyeon calls out his name. Junmyeon ignores her. This isn't about her anymore. This is about his reputation. This is about the reputations that will be destroyed if some blithering idiot decides to sell Junmyeon's secrets for pocket money.  
  
"I really don't care," the student retorts, spots of heat rising in his cheeks. He's lying, Junmyeon knows. Over the years, Junmyeon's gotten very good at determining exactly who is lying to him. It's been of invaluable help--and one of the few palace lessons he's thankful for. "I'm not exactly in charge of the Crown Prince fanclub. And you're hurting me."  
  
Another lie.  
  
" _Junmyeon_ ," Taeyeon calls from the classroom, this time urgently enough that Junmyeon turns around for a brief moment, distracted, and feels the intruder slip away, skin sliding out of his grasp. By the time Junmyeon looks back, their unwelcome guest is gone, and Junmyeon hadn't yet extracted a promise of silence from him.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Taeyeon's hair looks golden brown in the orange-tinged sunset. And suddenly Junmyeon is overwhelmed by exhaustion and misery and self-revulsion. He shouldn't have let go, he shouldn't have--he wonders what they'll say about her tomorrow, what they'll say about _him_ , whether their three years of friendship will be reduced into a few scandalous phrases packaged for public enjoyment. Whether the Queen and King will sit him down in their bedroom and remind Junmyeon, once again, of the weight of his obligations as the Crown Prince and future King of the Republic of Korea. Whether he'll be locked up at home and forbidden to attend classes. Whether he'll be reminded that Crown Princes do not need to graduate from accredited high schools--that high school is a privilege that he earned, not a right.  
  
There are probably thousands of photos stashed in archives around the country, pictures of Junmyeon and Taeyeon surrounded by classmates and friends, photographs that can be cropped to look more intimate than they ever were. _Fuck._  
  
He wants to run fingers through that hair. He wants to rewind time, he wants to go back to that afternoon when they were both sixteen and take all of it back. He never should have started anything, Junmyeon knows. Not when he should have realized that this would be how it would inevitably end. So he pulls back stiffly and clears his throat. "I should go. Find him. Call someone. Make sure he doesn't say anything." _Threaten him._  
  
"Don't hurt him. I don't think he'll tell--I've seen him around. He's in my department."  
  
Trust Taeyeon to think the best of someone neither of them know. Another reason she wouldn't suit the _goong_. She hasn't been properly inculcated with the suspicion that everyone is watching him, waiting to ruin him, waiting to prove him unfit for his crown. "I'll fix this," he promises. _I have to._  
  
She kicks at the air again. "I have my first concert in July. I hope you can come? I've been practicing until my throat's sore, and I've lost a lot of weight too."  
  
He can tell--he's seen the hollows in her cheeks and the dark bruising exhaustion beneath her eyes that she's covered with makeup. He turns away before the words overwhelm him. She knows he'll never be able to leave the palace for something like that. He hates that she even asked.  
  
"I should go," he says instead. It's his last excuse. He doesn't owe her one, but right now it's all he can give her. _Thank you for these three years_ , he wants to whisper. He can't--it's no longer appropriate--but he wouldn't trust himself to even if he could. He's not sure he could get the words out.  
  
And with that, with a weight in his chest he thinks will never dissipate, he closes the door, leaving her and _them_ and their beautiful sunset framed by bulletproof glass behind. The heels of his oxfords click through the tiled hallways as he looks for someone he instinctively knows that he won't find.

♙♟♙

  
  
When he's sixteen, Junmyeon learns that putting on his uniform and requesting a car to drop him off at school will buy him a few hours of freedom. His careful toeing of palace rules has earned the right to leave his bodyguards at the front gate of the Academy, and no one will dare report the Crown Prince for playing hookey, so he changes in a bathroom, tugs an old cap over his face and darts out the back, buying a T-money card with cash carefully collected over long periods of time in his back pocket. He palms it against the bus's electronic reader cautiously, sits next to dirty windows, and feels the vehicle shudder under him.  
  
No one recognizes him because no one expects to recognize him. He sits on park benches that haven't been carefully sanitized by a team of experts and rests his feet on public property. He slouches. It's a concentrated effort--letting his spine relax out of the stiff pose the Queen had trained him to subconsciously adopt.  
  
It's thrilling.

Even the birds outside the palace seem happier. They trill louder, more insolently, a seesaw of sound sweeping through the air. And so Junmyeon closes his eyes and he sleeps, sunlight bright behind his eyelids, nature loud against his ears. He eats food from street vendors and leaves wrappers on the ground. He chews gum. He doesn't tie his shoelaces. No one takes his picture, no one _cares_ , and he stares at the grass and drags his finger through the dirt and wonders what he would do if he could be free, if he could live like this forever.  
  
One day he meets a girl with a cap pulled low over _her_ head who asks him if he's a runaway. He laughs--he doesn't even mean to, it just explodes out of him, entirely gracelessly and effortlessly, hands still splayed in his lap. She's pretty and has no idea who he is and the world is bright and it's summer and he has sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he had never realized being sixteen could feel so intoxicatingly overwhelming.  
  
"I'm not running away. I'm just running."  
  
She tucks brown hair behind an ear and offers him her hand. "Kim Taeyeon. Nice to meet you."  
  
The novelty of the gesture is hysterical. Junmyeon almost chokes. He gives her his--she has no idea what an honor it is, closing fingers over the Crown Prince's hand--and smiles. "Kim Junmyeon." A name only a handful of people in entire world will ever call him. "So if you're a runaway, where are you going?"  
  
"Somewhere far away," she says, looking out into the distance. "Someplace where I'll never have to sing again."  
  
Junmyeon lets the questions bubble out of him. "You don't like singing?"  
  
"I like singing. I like learning to sing. I don't like the cameras. I don't like--" but she pauses mid-sentence, thinking better of whatever it was she was about to let slip. "I'm an artist. I'm training for my debut, and it sucks. They don't let me eat anything I want anymore, and I can't remember the dance steps, so management keeps scheduling extra practices. And you? Escaping cram school?"  
  
He's never been to cram school. "I'm running just to see what running is like." Junmyeon stretches and claws at the air with his fingers, tries to yawn with his mouth wide open, fumbles for a word.  
  
"And how do you like it?"  
  
No one ever asks Junmyeon what he thinks. Usually his thoughts are fed to him in a briefing right before an interview, approved by a committee of public relations staff. It takes him a minute to process the question. "I think I love it?"  
  
Taeyeon stares into space right along with him and they watch the train they'd both bought tickets for pull into the station. It's an express train--it will take them all the way out of Seoul, all the way to Busan in just a few hours. Junmyeon's never seen Busan outside of photographs, and he wonders whether the salty smell of the sea on his clothes is something he could hide when getting back, or whether the fishing town will change him so drastically that he'll never be able to come home.  
  
The conductor blows his whistle, calling for all stragglers to board. A man in a suit scrambles down the platform stairs and dashes for the train, loafers slapping against the concrete. And then, nothing.  
  
"I can't get on," Junmyeon says suddenly, thinking of heavy silks, the Queen's pursed lips, and a tea ceremony scheduled for this evening, bravery evaporating. The conductor blows his whistle again and closes the doors. "I have to get back."  
  
She stares at the train, slips a hand over his, and whispers, "Yeah, me too."  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
"Are you sure you can't find anyone?" the Queen presses urgently, voice low in the halls of the palace as they walk to offer up their morning greetings to the Queen Mother. "Wasn't there a girl you were dating, someone called--?"  
  
Junmyeon bristles at her familiarity. "My apologies."  
  
"Well. At least the Queen Mother will be pleased," the Queen says, not at all sincere. "I wish you'd have tried harder to find someone. Now you'll be marrying someone from your school. I think they've prepared the headlines to read something like: 'Enhancing the image of the Royal Family by promoting tolerance for a spectrum of sexualities.'"  
  
At first Junmyeon nods. And then the enormity of the words hit him viscerally, even as the Queen continues to talk about how she'd offered the boy (the _boy_!?) a chance to turn down the arranged engagement, but how the other family had jumped at the opportunity to enhance their social stature.  
  
 _A spectrum of sexualities._ Junmyeon reels, staggers, and a gaggle of staff surround him immediately, touching at his elbow gingerly to help him regain his balance, wondering whether he is okay, whether they should call the royal physician, whether he needs a chair.  
  
 _I'm not even gay_ , Junmyeon thinks, dazed, forgetting momentarily how much he detests when people touch him. The palace sounds fade away, and a shrill buzz in his ears replaces them, drowning out the Queen's monologue. Nausea bubbles in his throat. He thought he'd understood much he was expected to sacrifice for the throne. He thought he'd been _prepared_.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
The Queen purses her lips. "The late King's friend had only one child: Kim Jongdae. Apparently he goes to your school. You may know each other."  
  
There's not a single _chaebol_ in his circle of friends with that name. He tries to get up and shoves away the court ladies and their wandering hands. "Kim...Jongdae?"  
  
The Queen slides a photograph out of her sleeve. A court attendant takes it, and hands it to Junmyeon politely.  
  
Caught up in the absurdity of the gesture--royals don't pass objects directly to one another, of course--Junmyeon doesn't look at the photograph for a moment, mind still trying to process the situation. When he does bother looking down, Queen already walking off, he finds that he's staring at bright brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a very familiar head of downy, mussed hair.  
  
His heart, already heavy, almost stops.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Junmyeon and Taeyeon become the very best of friends. They spend all their free time together, and pass each other secret notes in the halls using lockers Junmyeon's specially requisitioned. She folds hers into cranes, and he tapes his down with stickers he asks his attendant to buy for him. They're weird-looking, all bright, holiday colors, but Taeyeon keeps them all in her notebook regardless.  
  
So they're best friends, and then she starts taking his hand at opportune moments. She buys him a cellphone charm matching one of hers. She leans in and kisses him one winter afternoon after they've just had peppermint hot chocolate and her mouth tastes of heat and bitterness and suddenly they're more than friends, they're two halves of a whole. They don't talk--they have nothing to say to one another anymore--but she leans on him and he thinks he can tackle the world as long as he has someone who understands him so well, who can capture the loneliness he feels in a few simple lines of a song she's practicing, who can mimic it in the lines of her body when she runs through a dance. They are both surrounded by loneliness, cocooned in it, and they don't need language to express that. Not when they're together.  
  
He's not happy, and he still has no one to explain how ridiculous it is that he can't call his parents _Mom_ and _Dad_ , but he isn't alone, and that's a start.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Junmyeon meets Jongdae formally for the first time when Jongdae is studying for their upcoming marriage ceremony in Seohandang Hall. Up until then Junmyeon's avoided school, requesting a few days of absence to clear his mind and meditate on his upcoming role and responsibilities. The Queen had acceded to his request, and the Queen Mother had been so thrilled by Junmyeon's seriousness that she'd promised to grant him one wish in return for his full cooperation at the ceremony.  
  
He'd been startled by her responses--Junmyeon's cooperation was usually expected, never _rewarded_. And then, finally feeling like something good would come out of this nightmare, Junmyeon had hidden a smirk behind a long, embroidered sleeve, and taken her up on the offer.  
  
A week passes. News outlets cover the upcoming marriage in long editorials and special flash publications speculating about _hanbok_ embroideries and flower arrangements. Fan cafes are founded overnight, and netizens trawl Jongdae's me2day for scandalous photos and text posts to turn over to the media. Luckily, nothing turns up but a handful of particularly embarrassing childhood pictures, standard for any celebrity. Junmyeon scrolls past them in his room disinterestedly. His group of friends know nothing about Kim Jongdae except that he's from a poor family, and he refuses to ask Taeyeon, the only one in the same department as the kid.  
  
The lack of information annoys Junmyeon. He wonders what Jongdae was thinking--told he'd marry the Crown Prince, the very same person he'd seen propose to his girlfriend in an abandoned classroom a week and a half previously. He wonders whether Jongdae had laughed and jumped at the chance, whether he'd told all of his friends, whether he'd betrayed Junmyeon's secret. Whether that cataclysmic piece of gossip had been overshadowed by the news of Junmyeon's impending marriage, which is why he hadn't yet heard any word of it on the internet or in print.  
  
The uncertainties eat away at him. And so the day Jongdae officially enters the palace to begin his training in court etiquette, Junmyeon decides to sneak over to Seohandang Hall--a section of the palace reserved for tutelage and officially off-limits until the wedding--and question him personally.  
  
He paces around his bedroom after changing into a casual suit, and then into more casual jeans, and then back into the suit when he considers what kinds of preparatory lessons Jongdae might be having (ritual observance? Palace ceremony?) and the kind of figure he wants to cut. Eventually he opts for sneakers instead of dress shoes just to emphasize his disinterest in Jongdae's arrival, brushes himself down in a mirror, and nods firmly at the image.  
  
He puts the picture of Jongdae in his pocket, just in case. When he gets there, Junmyeon realizes he needn't have bothered: Jongdae is almost unrecognizable, covered in beaded jewelry and silk, nothing like the rumpled uniform Junmyeon had seen him wear inside school. In fact, he looks almost presentable, leaning over his books, teeth worrying at the pad of his thumb. Rough around the edges, but at least his collar isn't deeply wrinkled and--  
  
"Nice to see you again," Junmyeon drawls from the entrance, dismissing the court tutors. He draws himself up, linking his hands behind his back. "I never thought of marrying you to keep you quiet, but I guess this'll do." The line falls a bit flatter than he'd expected, than he'd practiced. Junmyeon shields his disappointment with a cough.  
  
"Thoughtful, aren't you?" Jongdae turns a page in his study guide and then tosses it over the edge of his low study table. He doesn't look up, doesn't show the slightest bit of interest in Junmyeon's arrival. For someone who's about to marry the Crown Prince of the Republic of Korea, Jongdae seems awfully unfazed.  
  
Junmyeon also notices, quite irritatingly, that Jongdae's hands are somehow splotched messily with ink. Junmyeon sets his teeth.  
  
"I'm not reading this garbage at the wedding," Jongdae continues flippantly, "I'm not becoming your wife--why do I have to recite all this crap about respecting and honoring your commands?"  
  
It is crap, but Junmyeon can't say that. He's a prince. He's supposed to respect royal tradition, even if most of it is ridiculously antiquated and irrelevant, maintained out of the monacrhy's desperation to appear authentic and unyielding to time. So instead he peers at the _hanja_ adorning the side of the manuscript and muffles his discontent. "The Book of Filial Piety?"  
  
"The Queen was horrified when I explained I'd never read it."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't bother explaining that horrified is the Queen's natural state of being. "It's traditional. Had you been an aristocrat, you probably would have learned it already. It's a Confucius text. It's what _children_ are taught."  
  
"I'm sorry that I'm a poor, hapless commoner then," Jongdae replies, not sounding sorry in the least. "You've heard that much about me, right? It's in all the papers."  
  
Junmyeon rolls his eyes at Jongdae's naivete. Of course he's heard. He's also had the benefit of reviewing Jongdae's entire profile--from his height and weight to his grades and extracurricular activities since the third grade. "Just study it. Everyone else in the palace has. You're setting precedent just by being male--try not to destroy any other thousand-year-old traditions just yet."  
  
"I'll throw myself a party then to celebrate my excellence in flouting court tradition from day one."  
  
"You are not allowed to invite anyone into the _goong_ without the Queen Mother's permission." Junmyeon shifts his weight and wonders whether to continue, whether he should be the one to inculcate Jongdae into palace life. Somehow, the idea disgusts him. "There are a lot of rules here," he settles for. "You would do best to remember that."  
  
"Right, I entirely forgot I have three hundred volumes of laws to memorize before we're allowed to get married. How idiotic--maybe I'll take a nap instead."  
  
"If you embarrass me at the wedding ceremony," Junmyeon warns, "I won't forgive you."  
  
"So don't forgive me? I didn't think you liked me anyway, seeing as the last time we met you almost sprained my wrist."  
  
The jovial atmosphere fades quickly. "That's not an idle threat. The ceremony is going to be broadcast around the world. _Millions_ of people will be watching."  
  
Jongdae continues sucking on his calligraphy brush. Junmyeon realizes, instantly, that Jongdae hasn't looked up once--hasn't apologized for running away from the Crown Prince, for eavesdropping on a private conversation, for humiliating him in front of Taeyeon. He's not sure how he's let Jongdae's clever banter and criticisms of the royal family distract him. "Aren't you forgetting something?"  
  
"Hmm?" The hair at the bottom of Jongdae's neck, Junmyeon notices, is terribly short. Junmyeon can see the line of Jongdae's back disappear into his _hanbok_.  
  
"An apology. You owe me an apology."  
  
"For?"  
  
Junmyeon clenches his fist, but his voice emerges smooth and uninflected. "The other evening. In front of room 142 in the film studies building."  
  
"Ahhh, that?" Jongdae takes the brush out of his mouth and splashes it around the inkwell at the corner of his desk distractedly. "I don't see why I should apologize. You're the one who was misusing school property and harassing an uninvolved party. But I'll accept an apology from you, I suppose."  
  
"You suppose?" It's incredible that Junmyeon's voice doesn't break. Anger burns cold in his chest. He's spent days worrying about this, and Jongdae doesn't even consider it worth his time to beg Junmyeon's indulgence?  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"I'm the Crown Prince of Korea," Junmyeon says, drawing himself up. "You shouldn't be supposing anything. You should be bowing and begging for forgiveness. Preferably with a significant amount of prostration."  
  
"And I'm about to become the Prince Consort, so I think I'm going to skip the begging this time around, thanks."  
  
The jab reminds Junmyeon why he's there, why he's standing in Seohandang Hall surrounded by manuscripts borrowed from Sungkyunkwan. Why he'd been concerned about Jongdae's arrival in the palace in the first place. He suddenly feels stupid for worrying, when it seems like Jongdae hasn't even given the incident a moment's thought. It might have ruined Junmyeon--might have destroyed years of perfecting the flawless image the public croons over in magazine spreads and fancafes. But Jongdae hadn't given it a moment's thought.  
  
Junmyeon feels unsteady and ill at ease, disoriented by Jongdae's mysterious confidence. He leans away from the door and shoves his hands in his pockets. It's an insult. All of it.  
  
Well, Junmyeon thinks. Ideally they'll be living in separate rooms after they marry, far enough away from each other that Junmyeon can pretend Jongdae doesn't exist. After all--Jongdae will never be Taeyeon, will never be a comforting presence in the _goong_. Junmyeon doesn't know why he'd expected anything more when he already knew what Jongdae was like: sly, cunning, insidious. First impressions, after all, very rarely lie. It would have been nice to agree to a truce, but it isn't necessary. Junmyeon knows how to deal with enemies in the palace. He's always been surrounded by them, after all.  
  
"Do whatever you want," he says, turning away.  
  
Before he can start down the stairs, Junmyeon feels a tug at the bottom of his shirt. Almost imperceptible. But Junmyeon tenses regardless.  
  
"I'm just scared," he hears Jongdae whisper behind him. "I'm sorry. The sarcasm's a defense mechanism. I've never lived away from home before. I'm really close with my family, and I miss them."  
  
Junmyeon spins around, delicately extricating his shirt-tail from Jongdae's grip, skin prickling at Jongdae's easy familiarity. " _Don't touch me_."  
  
"I didn't want to come here, you know. They just picked me up in a car this morning, threw a few suitcases in the back, and carted me away. My parents didn't even get to make me breakfast."  
  
Junmyeon's not in the mood to indulge in Jongdae's sentimentality. "If you're so unhappy with this partnership, you could have refused. The Queen gave you a choice, I heard. It's not my fault you didn't take it."  
  
"No," Jongdae says, chin jutting out fiercely, finally meeting Junmyeon's eyes, "I couldn't have. You clearly didn't do your research--the bank was about to repossess our house. We would have been homeless. My parents have nothing--less than nothing. I had to do something for them, and this was a chance I couldn't give up."  
  
There's something about the way he says it--honestly, earnestly, _kingly_ \--that's almost offensive. "A chance," Junmyeon repeats snidely. "Marrying me was a chance."  
  
Jongdae shrugs, missing the note of disdain. "A very lucky one. And besides, who wouldn't want to become a celebrity overnight?"  
  
Junmyeon looks down at Jongdae's long lashes, high cheekbones, and carefully parted hair. His nails have been newly manicured, Junmyeon notes, but his wrists are still knobbly and his palms are still smeared with ink. There's still something so _foreign_ about him, like the palace knows he doesn't belong and is doing its best to reject him entirely.  
  
"Don't mess up in front of the cameras at the ceremony," Junmyeon warns coldly, pulling away again. "The Queen will have your head." _And mine,_ but there's no need for Jongdae to know that Junmyeon will need to take responsibility for all of Jongdae's mistakes once they're wed, that they will be one entity invested in two bodies.  
  
He doesn't mean it literally, but Jongdae pales nonetheless. As he stalks down the stone steps, the court ladies converge on Jongdae, fluttering about his stained sleeves and enticing him to put his shoes back on his feet, correct his posture, stop sucking at the end of his calligraphy brush. He asks them, voice carrying, if the Crown Prince is always that cruel, cold, and disinterested in others.  
  
Junmyeon hums all the way back to the palace to block out the noise.  
  
Junmyeon has fencing lessons in the afternoon. He sweats out his anger and disarms his teacher twice. Junmyeon can't tell whether that's because he's improving or whether, as he gets older, his instructors are less willing to chance his disapproval and let him win more often than not. After a few congratulatory bows, he eats dinner alone, reviews a few financial reports the King had sent over, and joins the rest of the royal family for the weekly movie-watching evening.  
  
He finds fault with the filming and the inaccuracies in the reenactment of palace life in the Joseon-era. The King tempers his agreement. The Queen orders in some expensive, tasteless white tea, and none of them speak of Junmyeon's impending marriage.  
  
By nightfall, Junmyeon's forgotten the afternoon's encounter almost entirely. It's only when he's changing into his heavy nightclothes that he recalls Jongdae's lowered lashes and quiet voice. He wonders how Jongdae is finding the richness of palace life. He wonders whether Jongdae still thinks of himself as lucky.  
  
Sleep comes as it always comes to Junmyeon: unwilling, suffocating, and dark.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
When Junmyeon is eighteen, he almost tells Taeyeon a secret. She's sitting with her back against the plush chair of the theater, hand brushing against his on the armrest they're sharing. Junmyeon isn't even sure what movie they're watching, but he likes Taeyeon's earrings, likes the way they catch sparkles of light and disappear into her hair. He likes how restrained she is, how comfortable she can be at the most expensive restaurants and the most obscure, dirty movie theaters. And suddenly he's seized with the desire to tell her how much he regrets never getting on that train to Busan that day. _It doesn't matter if I can never come home again,_ he wants to tell her. _The palace has never really been my home._  
  
He wants to tell her how he plans to abdicate the throne one day, fly to England, find the previous crown prince and offer him the position. Minseok would be a much better fit. Minseok had been born to be King. Junmyeon had just fallen into the line of succession when Minseok's father had died in a car accident before his crowning, and Junmyeon's father had been named King in his place.  
  
He wants to tell her how he plans to get a small apartment in France and take pictures of bridges and cars and boats. He wants to tell her how he plans to live in exile for the rest of his life, paying for everything he needs in cash he earns by working at an art gallery and selling his amateur photographs by the Seine. The rest of the trajectory of his life gets a bit fuzzy after that, but Junmyeon doesn't mind. It isn't about doing something in particular--it's about escape. It's about freedom. It's about figuring out where the _seja_ ends and _Kim Junmyeon_ begins.  
  
And he wants to tell her that it would be better if she could join him, if she would be willing to share his loft and make them coffee in the morning and wear all of his old shirts around their apartment. So he waits and when the movie ends and she wipes tears from her cheeks, patting at her lashes carefully with a tissue, and he pretends not to see and instead pulls his cap low when they escape in the throng of the crowd, she mentions she has a rehearsal she's running late for, so she'll have to go, sorry.  
  
"Do you really have to? Let's walk around for a bit longer."  
  
She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, steadying herself on his arm, fingers curling into his jacket oh-so-gently. And suddenly Junmyeon realizes that Seoul is home for Taeyeon in a way France can never be, and swallows the story.  
  
He walks her to the closest subway, and then pops into a bookstore to buy a handful of travel guides of Paris and Nice. They have beautiful, eye-popping covers, colors bright and alluring. He fingers them gently, reverently, and wonders why he feels so distressed about buying them with the very last of his cash reserves.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
The marriage is everything Junmyeon expected it would be: loud music, streets lined with thousands of people he's never seen before in his life, camera flashes blinding him at every turn, reporters begging for soundbytes. He's miserable. Even the luxurious food they give him to eat is tasteless, sandy in his mouth.  
  
He's dressed in heavy robes, head weighed down by the crown indicating his inheritance, and ushered outside of his room to walk around the palace, the place he'll one day be inheriting, using the stone paths he'll one day walk again during his inauguration as King. The entire ceremony has an air of gravitas to it, like everything else from the palace, and Junmyeon feels himself choke on the solemnity. None of the rites have any significance for him. He does what he's asked, touches stones, bows to altars, and wonders about the next chapter in the book about global economic recovery that he's been reading.  
  
When he's finally made it into the pavillion where the wedding ceremony is being held, the music stops, and the door to Jongdae's suite opens. Junmyeon hasn't seen Jongdae since that day in Seohandang, rough around the edges with ink smeared all over his hands. Today he looks different--today even time seems to stop for him, hanging in limbo as Jongdae bows and accept his new official title, Prince Consort, swathed in traditional light blues and deep golds. His entire body rustles when he moves.  
  
When he looks up, eyes half-hidden by makeup and swinging jewels from his crown, Junmyeon feels something shake inside of him. Not because it's Jongdae, someone he genuinely couldn't give a damn about, an idiot with too much sass and not enough self-restraint for someone about to become a prince, but because Jongdae looks beautiful like this, clothed in thousands of years of royalty. Because fabric spills over his fingers delicately, because his eyes look deep and gentle. Because for a second, it seems like Jongdae belongs here by Junmyeon's side.  
  
For a second, Junmyeon almost feels like he himself belongs. His clothes are still heavy and uncomfortable, but the burden is manageable. For once he wonders whether the King's crown will be equally as heavy. Whether he'll ever find out.  
  
He stops breathing, entranced.  
  
"Your Highness," someone whispers behind him, gesturing towards the rooster he's supposed to offer as a toast to the longevity of the upcoming union. He takes it stiffly, muscle memory taking over as his eyes continue to watch Jongdae's progress through the hall, each hesitant step bringing him closer to the rest of their lives together. And then Jongdae stumbles, someone takes a photograph of the gaffe, and the illusion is shattered.  
  
Junmyeon feels himself recoil and wonders, scathingly, how he could have, for a second, thought of this as anything more than an arranged marriage, a media stunt. He's furious with himself for the moment of weakness and self-delusion. So he tenses, takes a controlled breath, and offers up the sacrifice as Jongdae's parents instruct him in the rules of filial piety and the upcoming expectations Junmyeon's family will have of him. It's unlikely that any of those lessons will stick, Junmyeon thinks savagely, remembering Jongdae's studious disinterest. He's not sure why the court ladies even bothered trying to teach him anything.  
  
 _See nothing improper, hear nothing improper, say nothing improper, do nothing improper._ Lessons from his childhood studies of Confucius drilled so deeply into his memory that they've seeped into all areas of his consciousness.  
  
Junmyeon breathes in deeply, smiles for the adoring crowd, for their cameras, for the photographs that will be auctioned off to newspapers around the world, and bows.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
"It's a bit odd that you like photography," Taeyeon once said to him, hand slipping into his as they rounded the back of another bookstore. Together they appear anonymous--just another couple enjoying the sights of Seoul on a Tuesday afternoon, window shopping along streets neither of their budgets could afford. Taeyeon moons over a pair of platinum rings glittering in a department store window, and Junmyeon tries not to remind her that the only jewelry he is allowed to wear has been passed down to him from a dynastic line as old as Korea itself.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well. You don't like the media, and you don't like being on the cover of every gossip rag in the country whenever your outfit is less than perfectly pressed." She shrugs. "I guess I don't know why you don't mind it as much when you're the one behind the camera, that's all."  
  
She's never seen the rolls of film containing the thousands of imperfections that Junmyeon finds so seductive about the real world. He marvels at the idea that there are facets of himself that he hasn't yet shown her. "It's not the photography I don't like. It's the people taking the pictures."  
  
"So, commoners?"  
  
"People who are--" Junmyeon tries, faltering, "yes. Commoners. They don't really understand what the palace is like. But they want to--they think they want to. They thinks it's beautiful, but it isn't." It's not what he was going to say, but he isn't sure Taeyeon would ever really understand how much of the palace is manufactured, how deeply fault lines are concealed in artifice. How instinctive his distrust for anything traditionally beautiful now that he's seen how hefty a price the palace pays for its opulence.  
  
"So they take pictures?"  
  
"No," Junmyeon says, placing his hand on the glass separating them from the rings, perfectly placed over one another in a wreath of flowers, price tag artfully obscured. "They tell lies."  
  
"I don't understand," she admits, tugging him away. "I'm cold."  
  
He lets himself follow her, one eye still trained on the display. He can almost see his reflection in it. He looks tired. "Shall we get coffee?"

♙♟♙

  
  
As if the ceremony itself isn't public enough, afterwards there's the wedding procession. They're hustled into a chariot and carted all along the major streets around the palace, surrounded by curious onlookers waving and shouting their congratulations. Junmyeon feels his body go numb under the weight of all his clothing, and falls back on deeply ingrained mannerisms to maintain any semblance of propriety. When he looks to his right for a moment, he notices that Jongdae's knuckles are white and he's clinging to the sides of the carriage, looking firmly ahead, clothing, once again, entirely rumpled.  
  
"Smile," Junmyeon hisses through his teeth. "Smile and remember to wave."  
  
"This is exhausting," Jongdae moans.  
  
"Still--smile. That's your job now. Tomorrow we'll be in papers around the world." Junmyeon lets himself laugh, hoping someone will have caught the moment of fashioned intimacy. He moves in a bit closer, breath puffing against the shell of Jongdae's ear. "Happy with your newfound celebrity?"  
  
Jongdae elbows him not nearly as covertly. "Thrilled."  
  
They don't speak for the rest of the afternoon. Junmyeon's relieved--he can barely hold himself together after the long day. He doesn't look to see how Jongdae's managing--frankly, he doesn't care. And if Jongdae wants to frown at cameras and be caught with his clothing in disarray, that's his choice. Junmyeon refuses to intervene any further. There's no reason he should care about someone who agreed to marry him to secure his family's financial stability.  
  
He doesn't help Jongdae out of the carriage when they disembark, and doesn't wait for Jongdae to follow him back into the palace. For what it's worth, Jongdae doesn't complain, and the silence is welcome.  
  
Due to their age and the fact that they're still in high school, the ceremonial sharing of the room, _hapbang_ , is delayed indefinitely. Junmyeon throws himself into his bed when his servants have dispersed, and tries to will away all the memories of the afternoon. He starts with the clothing, with the heavy silks against his skin, with the sweat breaking out along his forehead, with the long chains of beads dangling from his crown in front of his face. And then he tries to forget Jongdae's white knuckles, pale skin, flushed cheeks as he walked down the hall and pledged himself to Junmyeon, kohl dark against his eyes.  
  
It barely works; Junmyeon sleeps fitfully. In the morning he dresses, pulling on the jacket his attendants set aside for him, and cringes at how exhausted he looks. There's a bottle of BB cream on the counter that he scowls at before dutifully slathering his face. Even within the walls of the palace there are few acceptable reasons to broadcast one's discomfort. He covers the dark circles under his eyes with practiced swipes against his skin.  
  
  
  
  
  
He meets the rest of the family in one of the smaller reception rooms after breakfast. It's a tradition--the younger members of the family joining the elders to greet them every morning while they eat. The Queen Mother is already sipping at her tea, and the King and Queen have their hands folded in their laps, perfect models of serenity. There's an array of newspapers neatly fanned across the table. Junmyeon wonders how angry his mother is, accepting a plate containing samples of his father's food, tasting corners of every item for poison.  
  
"How is the Consort this morning?" the Queen Mother asks, smiling into her hands as their food is doled out and Junmyeon finally takes his seat.  
  
Junmyeon stares right past her. "I'm not sure. I haven't seen him. I haven't even thought about him." It's the closest he can get to disrespect without warranting punishment.  
  
" _Seja_ ," the Queen snaps. Junmyeon shrugs and reaches for a napkin to blot the crumbs from his lips.The couch sags beneath him. It's uncomfortable, probably broken, and equally as likely never to be replaced. Nothing in the palace gets replaced, it just gets a coat of paint as close to the original as possible and a few stitches.  
  
"I'm going to be late for school if I don't leave soon." The Queen coughs incredulously. Junmyeon ignores her. "In the future, the Prince Consort's attendants should be reminded to bring him here after breakfast."  
  
"He'll be here in a moment," an aide interrupts. "He was just--"  
  
"I'm still leaving. I shouldn't be late for class." He drops his napkin on the table before nodding as stiffly as he can manage and excusing himself. Better to set an example now than pretend to be kind, Junmyeon thinks. It'd be doing Jongdae a disservice to delude him into thinking that he has allies in the palace; Jongdae has to learn to fend for himself here.  
  
Junmyeon changes into his school uniform and grabs his backpack. On his way out of the palace, he hears footsteps thunder behind him, and then feels a palm press against his back. He smacks it away reflexively, and then looks down and sees two pale fingers curl around his shirt-cuff and Jongdae by his side, free hand on his knee, hunched over and gasping. "You couldn't wait? I hurried."  
  
His bangs are stuck to his forehead, and his collar is rumpled. _Idiot._ How he's managed to look so disheveled this early in the morning, Junmyeon has no idea. Shaking him off, Junmyeon says, "You should have been at the reception this morning."  
  
"I didn't think about setting an alarm clock. My parents usually--"  
  
"Your parents aren't here for you anymore. The court ladies will wake you up if you instruct them to."  
  
Their car pulls up along the driveway, and a guard opens the door. Jongdae brushes past him and slides in, sliding against the leather seats, against _Junmyeon's_ seat.  
  
Junmyeon grinds his teeth irritably. After a moment, he climbs in stiffly, folding his hands in his lap, waiting for the guard to shut the door. He takes two deep breaths and tries a different tact. "Jongdae, you can't touch me like that. I'm the Crown Prince."  
  
"I'm your husband, though." But Jongdae tightens his fingers over the straps of his backpack. "I don't know why you're so uptight all of the time. You didn't have a problem almost spraining my wrist after your little proposal didn't turn out so well."  
  
" _I told you not to talk about that._ "  
  
Jongdae raises his hands. "I'm just saying. Our rooms are right across from each other, so you don't have to ignore me. We could try and get along. I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I'm willing to admit that was partially my fault, even if you are pretty humorless about the whole thing."  
  
Junmyeon stares at Jongdae and wonders whether he ought to ask if Jongdae' apologies are _usually_ rife with insults. Jongdae just waves his hands around and continues. "So I was thinking we could have lunch together in the cafeteria? Get to know each other. Kind of like a date. Might as well make the best of a crappy situation, right?"  
  
"You're kidding, right?"  
  
Jongdae blinks. "Um, not really? Usually my jokes are a little funnier, include a punch line, et cetera."  
  
"We're married," Junmyeon says stiffly. "You're one of the wealthiest people in the country, and your parents no longer have to abandon their home. Congratulations. Was there anything else you needed from me? I was under the impression that was all."  
  
There's a silence. And then Jongdae answers, voice frosty, "If you're so unhappy that you had to marry me, why didn't you just tell your parents that you weren't interested? I'm sure you could have found some convincing reason--too poor, too ugly, too _male_."  
  
Light streams in through the tinted car windows. It's a gorgeous day outside. Were he a commoner, Junmyeon wonders whether he'd have been allowed to ride his bike to school on a day like this, what the wind would have felt like in his ears, whether he might have fallen and scraped up the palms of his hands and his forearms. His voice comes out much more roughly than he'd expected, and he blames Jongdae for the lapse. "Why would you joke about that?"  
  
"I'm serious. Why didn't you just--"  
  
Junmyeon slams his fist against the middle seat of the car. And then he stops, watching Jongdae's hands clamp over his schoolbag, his eyes wide and honest. And Junmyeon realizes that Jongdae isn't being cruel--he really just has no idea what he's gotten himself into. He's just an idiot. Just another fucking useless idiot who thinks the palace is beautiful and perfect and exactly like the stories those PR committees churn out once a month to keep the public invested in the monarchy.  
  
"No," Junmyeon spits between clenched teeth, "I couldn't have. That's what I've been trying to tell you--as soon as you became part of the royal family, you lost your chance at making your own decisions. Now everything you do is broadcast across the country. You don't make choices, and you don't keep secrets. Ever."  
  
"But you're the Crown Prince."  
  
"In a constitutional monarchy," Junmyeon reminds him.  
  
"So we're stuck together. We can make the best of it--it could be worse. You could be stuck with someone significantly less attractive."  
  
Junmyeon tries to shrug off his anger. "Sure, it could be worse. I could have married someone I loved and trapped them inside the palace forever. Lucky me, then. I married you."  
  
Jongdae's mouth slides open. It hangs open for a while, entirely unattractively, before Junmyeon takes pity and leans forward, fingers brushing against Jongdae's chin and shutting his mouth for him. "The cameras are always watching," he explains softly, almost kindly. "Better learn that now."  
  
"You're disgusting," Jongdae whispers, eyes trained on a point above Junmyeon's head. "I told you why I had to be here. I gave up everything for my family and it's not like I--" a pause, and rough swallow that Junmyeon feels under the pads of his fingers, and then: "We could at least be friends. You could at least pretend to care about how difficult this was for me. You could try to make me feel welcome--I was relying on you. I thought that at least we knew one another, going into this. At least we were in the same boat."  
  
Junmyeon stares at him and moves away. "Didn't you want to be a celebrity? Wasn't this an excellent chance for you? What are you dissatisfied with?"  
  
They pull into the main gates of SM Art Academy mayhem erupting, as usual, in honor of the Crown Prince's arrival. The crowd presses against the cars and cameras flash. Junmyeon feels himself shrink into his seat, not yet ready to go back to classes. To see his friends again. To see _Taeyeon._ Luckily, Jongdae doesn't notice his discomfort.  
  
"I was honest with you. I told you I was lonely. And you didn't give a fuck. Just because you have your parents--"  
  
"--the King and Queen," Junmyeon corrects.  
  
Jongdae rolls his eyes. "Whatever. You don't get it. Of course you wouldn't get it," he says, opening his door, not even waiting for the car to come to a complete stop. What an idiot. "You're a complete asshat."  
  
Junmyeon grabs at his wrist. "Look," he hisses, cognizant of the dozens of onlookers peering into the vehicle. "I'm willing to cut a deal with you. If you cooperate, if you come to breakfast and act appropriately and make this work, I'll find a way to make this marriage less hellish for the both of us."  
  
Jongdae quirks an eyebrow. "Oh?"  
  
"I'm the Crown Prince. I can't divorce you. But one day--one day all of that might change. One day I'll be King, and I'll have more freedom than I do now. Bear with it until then. That's the only favor I can promise you. Until then, _behave_. Make this easier for the both of us." It's partially a lie, but Junmyeon doesn't trust Jongdae with the truth. Not yet.  
  
There's a pause, and then Jongdae yanks his arm away violently. "You really are trash," he says, almost awed. "I honestly can't believe you."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
Jongdae slams the door shut. Junmyeon finds himself shocked into inaction. He'd offered Jongdae an escape--what the hell was wrong with the kid?  
  
"Did I say something improper?" he asks, dazed. A few fans knock on his windows.  
  
The chauffeur adjusts his rearview mirror nervously. "Uh. M'not sure talking about divorce is going to fix any of your marital problems, Your Highness?"  
  
His driver--his _driver_ is talking to him. Him. The Crown Prince. Junmyeon wonders whether the world has suddenly gone completely fucking insane. "I think the Consort's impertinence must be catching," he states calmly, sliding out of his seat.  
  
He only just manages to stop himself from slamming the car door shut.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Despite the flurry of excitement infusing the school, Junmyeon manages to avoid all conversation about Jongdae and the likelihood that they've already fooled around by slipping headphones over his ears and tactfully reminding his group of _chaebol_ friends that he tolerates a certain level of familiarity because of their long acquaintance, but only up to a point. He's not interested in talking about the wedding--not with anyone. Even his friends can't be trusted with Junmyeon's confidence.  
  
"He's kind of pathetic," Yixing says, blankly prodding at his tablet screen. "Scholarship student, know-it-all. Ranked first in all his academic subjects? How dull. There are so many better things to do than study these days. We feel bad for you."  
  
"Don't," Junmyeon warns, turning up the volume, leaning back in his chair. "Worry about your grades."  
  
The classroom is comfortably loud, filled with people Junmyeon can ignore. He feels himself relax slightly into the anonymity.  
  
"They've been slipping," Baekhyun teases. "Someone's been hanging out with that basketball player Lu Han a little too _enthusiastically_."  
  
"I don't have to worry about my grades, thanks, because my father already has a managing director position waiting for me. And how on earth could I be a filial son and turn that down?" Yixing gently stuffs his half eaten pastry into Baekhyun's mouth. Zitao snickers, Baekhyun chokes, and Taeyeon giggles from the doorway.  
  
Junmyeon tries not to notice how pretty she looks today. She turned him down. She ended things. He'd given her one chance, and she'd refused. She hops into the room and her hair swings behind her and when she sits on top of Zitao's desk, Junmyeon can see her knees.  
  
He stares at the display screen of his Samsung. She laughs at another joke Baekhyun tells, crumbs slipping out of his mouth disgustingly.  
  
Junmyeon feels his ears burn.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Jongdae doesn't speak to him during the car ride home, an improvement over that morning's debacle. He has ink all over his hands, somehow, and his shirt is creased. He's not even in the art department, if Junmyeon recalls correctly. But the ink is another mystery that Junmyeon is determined not to care about.  
  
He almost can't help himself, though.  
  
"Don't bow to the help," Junmyeon snaps on their way into the palace, depositing his backpack into the arms of a waiting attendant. "You're an idiot. What have the court ladies been _teaching_ you?"  
  
"I don't know why you always get so angry at me," Jongdae replies, "they did me a favor. I was thanking them. I know you seem to be this void of good manners but, newsflash, not everyone is an asshole like you. Get used to it."  
  
There isn't a good answer to Jongdae's question. Junmyeon's always been proud of his ability to control his emotions, but recently they've been explosive and volatile. He turns away, admiring an ugly statue that's decorated the atrium of their suite since the King visited the United States four years previously, and takes three deep breaths. "How are your studies going? Mastered _hanja_ yet?"  
  
"You try learning an entirely foreign language in a month," Jongdae groans, flopping down on a couch gracelessly. "I don't know why we can't use _hangul_. Or even English--I am excellent at English."  
  
"Why would the Royal Family use--" Junmyeon bites his tongue. Jongdae has no idea what the weight of tradition feels like, has never felt shackled by the embroidered hanboks they change into on formal occasions, wears them like they're playing dress up. "What do you even learn in school?"  
  
"Some people didn't spend self-study period drooling over gossip tabloids. I told you way back when--I'm not a fan of the royal family."  
  
"You were lying. You're a terrible liar."  
  
"I'm not lying! I have philosophical objections to the monarchy. I've told you that before, actually."  
  
Junmyeon's not bored enough to bother replying.  
  
He doesn't listen to a word Jongdae says over dinner either, slipping headphones over his ears instead, some book on autoplay. After the meal, Jongdae is sent away to more lessons, and Junmyeon retires to his study where a stack of economic reports await his perusal. Each document is protected by a thick, velvet folder, and they all seem to say the exact same thing: tourism is at an all-time low, and local businesses are suffering. Junmyeon stamps the documents with his seal and sends them away. There's nothing he can do about any of this. Once upon a time that would have bothered him, would have kept him up late doing research into small town shops and consumer habits; as of late, Junmyeon finds that he's slowly becoming numb to the shame of the royal family's inaction and inherent uselessness. As long as he continues to smile for the camera, Jongdae on his arm, the people will be happy with him. As long as the PR department continues to issue long news reports about how diligently the palace occupants are working to devise a scheme that'll improve upon the corruption rife in the upper levels of government bureaucracy, no one will look too closely and see, perhaps, that the palace itself is one of the government's biggest liabilities.  
  
Suddenly exhausted, Junmyeon shoves his hands in his pockets and walks down the long, empty halls towards his bedroom. He's greeted by staff he's learned to ignore, and a small army of court personnel follows him through the halls, opening doors and announcing his presence whenever he stalls in front of an occupied room. He holds up a hand to silence them eventually, exhausted by the clamor. He wonders how his mother had ever gotten used to the _goong_ when she'd been brought up to enjoy such comparative freedom.  
  
When he gets to his room he dismisses the crowd and slides onto his heated mattress, drawing his travel guides out from his bedside table. He flips through the well-worn pages, and settles on a photo of the Eiffel Tower, traces its metal feet with a finger. _Bonjour_ , he whispers. _Comment-allez vous?_  
  
The book doesn't answer him, of course, but Junmyeon can imagine that it does, can imagine he's lost in a world that doesn't know him, doesn't care about him, a world where he can buy bread without fuss and eat food from street vendors. Get gum on his shoes. Run barefoot through his house.  
  
There is a boy somewhere in Europe who Junmyeon hasn't spoken to since he became the heir apparent. A boy who'd been born to the throne. A boy who deserved this place far more than Junmyeon ever would. Someone who could rescue him.  
  
Junmyeon closes his eyes and whispers, " _Au revoir._ "  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Taeyeon doesn't call him for weeks. In the meantime the school swells with rumors. Junmyeon and Jongdae are never seen together, and Junmyeon does his best to avoid the topic, but he still manages to hear the discontent in everyone's voice whenever the Consort's name is mentioned. And he understands it.  
  
It's not just that Jongdae's a commoner who still hasn't bothered to finish the Book of Filial Piety--he's uncouth. His sleeves are always rolled up too far and there is always a stain on his shirt. He dresses better than ever before in his handmade blazer and tailored trousers, but he still looks sloppy by the end of the day, every article of clothing wrinkled. The new haircut the palace staff had given him looks just as messy as his old one had. Jongdae manages to seem _poor_ from the moment he steps out of bed in the morning, and it grates on Junmyeon. Even the way Jongdae asks for kimchi and eats loudly and fills the dining room with noise, begging to visit his parents is frustrating. It's human. And in a house of dolls, it doesn't fit.  
  
It's just a matter of time until it begins to bother the rest of Korea, Junmyeon thinks. The country had wanted a fairytale romance, and instead they'd gotten _this_. Jongdae. He's sure not even the LGBT community is all that impressed by this obvious political stunt.  
  
Yixing leans back in his chair and passes Junmyeon an assignment. "Did you do yours? The screenplay, I mean. It's due third period."  
  
Junmyeon shrugs and folds the paper in half. "Last week. Not everyone leaves things to the last minute."  
  
"Next time I won't bother doing it. I can copy yours, right?"  
  
Junmyeon smirks. "Don't even think about it."  
  
"You're awful. What do you need good grades for? It's not like you're going to university," Yixing says, eyes scanning the classroom, and Junmyeon watches him, bemused. As the son of LG Corporation, Yixing won't need good grades to go to college either. They're all just biding time while their futures are prepared for them. Junmyeon supposes he'll look back, one of these days, and think of high school as the time when he exercised the most freedom he's ever been allowed, whereas they'll look at the school like it'd been a stage where they'd been forced to dance to the tune of someone else's fiddle.  
  
It's a painful irony to contemplate.  
  
After a moment, Yixing turns back to Junmyeon, bangs falling neatly over his forehead. "You know," he says slowly, lowering his voice, "they're bullying your husband."  
  
Junmyeon feels his hackles rise. This is his safe space. He hadn't wanted to be reminded of his duties here, surrounded by boys in similar uniforms presented with similar expectations. He'd wanted to disappear. Junmyeon reaches for his headphones, but Yixing stops him, fingers light on Junmyeon's wrist. Junmyeon pulls away sharply at the unexpected contact.  
  
For all that they're friends, Yixing has managed to cross a line. "How dare you touch me."  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just saying. I think they're really hurting him. Baekhyun said something about it the other day, and we thought you should know--it wouldn't look good if your husband walked out of school with bruises all over his face, would it? Bit embarrassing for all of us. They might even think we were behind it."  
  
While it's not an unfathomable outcome, it seems highly unlikely that anyone would dare touch the Prince Consort. And it's Jongdae's job to fend for himself in the palace. He'd wanted the opportunity to be a prince and be fabulously wealthy and enjoy the celebrity of the royal family's fame, then so be it. He ought to enjoy it to its fullest.  
  
So Junmyeon doesn't dignify that with a response, just slips his headphones over his ears and relaxes into the music. It's a song Taeyeon had loaded onto his iPod months ago when they were still dating, when she was practicing for her debut and wanted to show Junmyeon what kind of artists she'd been learning from.  
  
He hadn't liked the music, but somehow it had grown on him, a comfortable prickle against his consciousness. Now he barely notices it, instead watching steadily as Yixing turns back towards the front of the room and pages through his homework. Noting the end of their conversation, Baekhyun shuffles back over to Yixing's desk and leans in, shrugging and frowning at Yixing's near-silent whispers, moving to tug distractedly at Zitao's sleeve when Yixing pushes him away.  
  
They're talking about him, Junmyeon knows. He's used to this. The world is always talking about him, speculating about the few things that are not public record: his thoughts, his feelings, and memories. He closes his eyes and leans back in his seat stiffly, thinking of music. Thinking, for some strange reason, of the ink splattered across Jongdae's clothing. Wondering where it comes from. Bullies?  
  
 _I don't care,_ Junmyeon thinks. And he doesn't. Jongdae doesn't belong in the palace. And despite how much Junmyeon still resents Jongdae for marrying him--for not being Taeyeon, for accepting the Queen's offer at all--he's envious. Junmyeon has never wanted to belong. Maybe Jongdae will stay happy like this--always on the fringe of royal society, never quite blending in with the coldness of Junmyeon's family. Honestly, Jongdae could only be so lucky to spend the rest of his life as an outcast in the _goong_..  
  
But--and Junmyeon turns his Samsung over in his hand uncomfortably--Yixing did have a point. Bruises on the face of a member of the the royal family? If it' true, it'd be unseemly. It's only a matter of time before the family elders hear about it and reprimand him, calling him into their rooms at night and lecturing him about his responsibilities and his multiple failings. Thus far they've been pleased with his performance--it'd be a shame to lose all of that goodwill. Junmyeon had been hoping to trade some of it in in the near future, ideally for the luxury of not needing to take so many guards to school every day. His entourage had been increased when Jongdae started accompanying him, but fifteen bodyguards? Really?  
  
Just then, Junmyeon feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out and almost drops it when he sees the screen displaying an unopened mail icon and Taeyeon's name.  
  
The text is a reminder that he still hasn't deleted her number. He should. He knows he should. They can't have anything to do with each other anymore--he can't give her anything, and she can't expect him to. There's no future in a friendship like theirs anymore. It's something he should leave far behind him, in the past. A memory, precious and untouched.  
  
But he unlocks the screen and opens it. Strictly out of habit.  
  
 _There's a showcase later this week at the company--I'll be performing. I've emailed you the details. x_  
  
His heart thuds, and his hands sweat. Junmyeon stares at the words until they stop being words, until they're just pixels on the screen blurring together, until the characters have faded into something unrecognizable. He hates that he instantly thinks of the black cap stuffed at the bottom of his locker, of the dark-wash jeans in his closet, of excuses he could make in order to successfully disappear for three hours. He hates that his stomach twists when he thinks about watching her dance, hair curling at her shoulders and light catching its waves. He hates that he can't immediately bring himself to chalk up the idea as a terrible one. He hates that when he sees her later that afternoon, the back of ears burn when she laughs at a joke Baekhyun tells her, leaning in a bit too closely for Junmyeon's comfort.  
  
Most of all, though, Junmyeon thinks, shoving his phone back into his pocket, text emblazoned in his memory, he hates that he's still probably in love with her.  
  
  
  
  
  
The day slips by more slowly than the others had. At the end of it, Junmyeon stalks over to the cars waiting for him by the school entrance, surrounded by bodyguards. He's surprised when Jongdae isn't already there--Jongdae's usually rushing out of the gates, desperate to change into something that isn't the school uniform he somehow manages to dirty every single afternoon. He's usually brimming with complaints he wants to share as soon as the door is closed. He's usually waiting for Junmyeon--not the other way around. Never the other way around.  
  
Junmyeon taps at the window with a finger irritably. He has paperwork to go over this evening, and he's sure that if he manages to complete an extra set, he might be able to wrangle three hours out of his schedule on Thursday night.  
  
So when Jongdae finally slumps into the car, hand shielding the side of his face Junmyeon is furious. "You're seventeen minutes late," he snaps, indicating that the driver should depart with a practiced handwave, "if you were going to be late you should have told me."  
  
"I don't have your cell phone number," Jongdae retorts. His words slur, and Junmyeon realizes, just a bit guiltily, that he's never bothered to find out Jongdae's number himself. That he'd have no idea how to contact Jongdae if he really needed to.  
  
"I'll give it to you," he replies guilty, digging through his pocket, "don't call it unless it's an emergency."  
  
"I won't."  
  
Junmyeon turns to hand Jongdae his phone, and notices that Jongdae's face is covered in plasters. They've been inexpertly applied, and the edges are already starting to peel away, but Junmyeon can see that there's still blood at the corner of one of his lips and his cheek is red and swollen. For some reason, he feels his heart rate spike.  
  
Jongdae flinches. "I fell. In case you were curious."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't dignify that with a response. "Take the phone."  
  
"The swelling should go down in a few days."  
  
And it's the combination of Jongdae's slurred voice and dejection that sends Junmyeon over the edge. He smashes his fist into the side of the car. "Did you forget that we have to meet the Queen Mother for breakfast every morning? Do you think she'll believe that you just _happened_ to fall on your face? Are you an _idiot_?"  
  
"I don't know why you're so angry with me," Jongdae says. "Take your phone back. I don't need your number. If I'm late next time you can just leave--I'll take a bus."  
  
Junmyeon rolls his eyes--a prince taking a bus? How absurd--grabs both their mobiles out of Jongdae's hand, and transfers the numbers himself. He notices that Jongdae has a few hundred contacts stored in his phone--Junmyeon has only seven. It's another disconcerting reminder of how dissimilar they are, what a badly suited match they make, and Junmyeon feels himself prickle furiously.  
  
"Ice," he says finally, tossing the phone onto Jongdae's lap. "Lots of ice, and some antiseptic cooling spray. Don't sleep on it."  
  
"Speaking from experience?"  
  
Junmyeon shoots Jongdae a glare. To his credit, Jongdae doesn't shy away, just sighs exasperatedly and says, "Fine, whatever, forget I asked. It's not like you tell me anything anyway. You don't care about anyone but yourself."  
  
"We don't need to talk to have a successful marriage," Junmyeon reminds him, digging through his bag for his mp3 player, "we just need to be civil to each other. Like we have been."  
  
"Like we have been," Jongdae repeats flatly.  
  
"Yes. Like we have been."  
  
Jongdae looks exhausted by the argument, so when he looks down and starts playing with his cell, Junmyeon relaxes and tunes him out. Luckily, the rest of the car ride is silent and comfortable, just like it's been for the past month. Jongdae seems to have learned to expect less and less. He's gotten quieter, cleaner, and he wears his suits correctly around the house for the most part, even if his cuffs are always rolled up and his ties and cravats are always crooked. And Junmyeon's learned not to notice that Jongdae is always whining about missing his home, always running through the halls, always late to some lesson or another, a gaggle of court assistants begging him to wait. If Junmyeon noticed, after all, he'd have to admit that it bothers him. And it doesn't. Wouldn't. _Couldn't._ He can't be irritated by something he refuses to acknowledge.  
  
The car stops, jerking Junmyeon out of his reverie. He takes out his earphones, shoves them back into his bag, and is surprised when Jongdae clears his throat and hands him a phone.  
  
"You threw me yours," he explains. "You didn't give me mine back, you handed me yours."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't spend enough time calling people to know if that's true. He digs through his pocket, pulls out an identical looking device, and turns them both on.  
  
Jongdae was right. Junmyeon had handed over his phone, screen unlocked, inbox open, Taeyeon's texts lined up neatly, her most recent still open at the top.  
  
Something churns in Junmyeon's stomach. He's not sure what it is, but by the time he moves to reply, Jongdae's already slipped inside.  
  
He tells himself it has nothing to do with the slump in Jongdae's shoulders.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
That evening, Jongdae picks at his dinner. Sunghwan notes Jongdae's lack of an appetite on his clipboard and asks whether he should ask the kitchen to prepare anything else. Junmyeon notes that his cheek already looks much better, and if his chewing is stilted, it's hardly noticeable. He dismisses Sunghwan's concern--if Jongdae can't manage to eat his dinner because of his stupidity and the cuts on his face, then that should serve as a reminder. Jongdae is more than just Kim Jongdae, now. He's Junmyeon's consort, he's a prince of Korea, and he ought to take better care of his body.  
  
"No," Jongdae just says, setting down his chopsticks. "I just want to go sleep."  
  
"You have your lessons after dinner," Sunghwan says.  
  
Jongdae frowns. "More studying?"  
  
"You still have to finish the Book of Filial Piety."  
  
"No, thanks. I'd rather not. In fact, I'd rather go home for a week. I think I'm getting sick, and it'd be nice to be around people who care about me."  
  
"It isn't up to you," Junmyeon interrupts, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. "If Sunghwan says you have to study, you have to study. Don't make any more trouble. You've already exceeded your quota for today."  
  
"I don't think I'm the one making trouble."  
  
"You know you can't leave the _goong_ without permission. If you were listening during any of your lessons, you might remember that. School is the only exception. Maybe for you it shouldn't be--you clearly don't appreciate the liberty."  
  
Jongdae stares at Junmyeon over the table, eyes steely and cold. "Oh really?"  
  
Junmyeon tenses. "I told you that weeks ago."  
  
"There aren't any special exceptions made? Because I thought I'd read that--"  
  
" _Jongdae._ "  
  
Jongdae smiles, and it's a cold, nasty little thing. He gets up out of his seat and places his napkin next to the almost entirely full bowls of rice and soup and plates of side-dishes. "If you'll excuse me, Your Highness," he says, tone brooking no argument, "I suppose I need to review those books.  
  
The memory of their very first argument in Seohandang Hall floods Junmyeon's memory. He tightens his lips. "I suppose you do."  
  
Jongdae stalks out of the room with his shoulders squared and for a second Junmyeon remembers the boy swathed in traditional light blues and deep golds, body rustling when he moved; a boy clothed in thousands of years of history. For a second, Junmyeon feels cowed, feels that same twist in his stomach when he realized he had never even bothered to give Jongdae his cell phone number. That they lived in the same palace under the same roof, but Junmyeon had never visited Jongdae's suite.  
  
That Junmyeon hadn't even noticed that Jongdae had been bullied in school until forgetful, _oblivious_ Zhang Yixing had brought it up.  
  
It's not guilt, exactly, but it's the feeling he'd had in the car looking at Jongdae's shoulders. Jongdae had looked--not like Junmyeon was concerned or at all invested in Jongdae's mental health-- _lonely._ Like the palace was finally getting to him. Like he was learning to regret having ever married Junmyeon.  
  
It bothers him.  
  
"Sunghwan," he says, putting down his own chopsticks, "are the Consort's rooms," and Junymeon swallows, tripping over the words, "are they nice enough?"  
  
"They're very nice. The Queen outfitted them herself."  
  
Junmyeon frowns. That wasn't really what he was asking. "Are there any paintings of brutally murdered Kings in there? Any artistic imaginations of the fall of Hugoguryeo? Anything with authentic bloodstains?"  
  
"Well, there is that one painting of Taejong executing his brothers-in-law."  
  
"Oh--I remember that. It used to be in my room, right? It's horrible. Have it removed."  
  
Sunghwan bows.  
  
Junmyeon picks up his chopsticks again, but he isn't hungry anymore. He stares at Jongdae's empty place at the table before putting them down, folding his hands in his lap, and asking, "do you know about any traditions the royal family has of letting a prince's bride visit her home after marriage?"  
  
Jongdae's contact list might have been full, but it hadn't escaped Junmyeon's notice that not a single one of those numbers had been called in the month they'd been married.  
  
Sunghwan shadows his face with his clipboard, poorly concealing a grin. "I can look into it, _seja_."  
  
The napkin at Jongdae's place is rumpled, but perfectly clean. There are enough lonely people in the _goong_ Junmyeon thinks, for a lifetime. Jongdae might not deserve this, but Junmyeon has always been taught to exercise kindness. _The noble man develops people's good points, not their bad points. The inferior man does the opposite._  
  
"Please do."  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Junmyeon leaves school early on Thursday, instructing the chauffeurs to pick Jongdae up when classes have officially let out. He feigns exhaustion, shuts himself in his room for the evening with a ginseng tonic and a stack of press releases he's already reviewed, and sticks Post-It notes between their pages. He changes into dark jeans and a dark hat and slips around the gaggle of court personnel in his suite by darting behind a wall, a set of curtains, and hushing a few court ladies into desperate silence. When he makes it outside he tugs his wide-brimmed cap low over his face and walks quickly across the lawns, pace hurried, heart thumping at the prospect of having an afternoon to himself. He feels Mount Bugaksan swell behind him, and the air freshen deceptively as he heads towards the palace walls, towards _Gwanghwamun_ , the main gate of the _goong_.  
  
And suddenly he's outside, ordering a car for himself from the bewildered guards, grabbing the keys out a driver's hands and sliding into the front seat, leather slick against his jeans. He slams the door shut, depresses the accelerator, and almost laughs at the faces they make, trying to process whether they'll get in more trouble for chasing after the prince or for letting him go.  
  
And then he's _gone_. The world blurs around his windows and bleeds into his car. Adrenaline rushes through his chest. He feels himself smile and relax into the luxurious leather seat of his Hyundai.  
  
  
  
  
  
The showcase is easy to slip into--a smile here, Taeyeon's e-mail there, a brisk walk with his head lowered, getting elbowed out of the way by teenaged girls standing on tiptoes cooing over boys in tight leather pants and way too much hairspray. The showcase takes place in a large, dark auditorium, and Junmyeon grabs a seat by the very back, right near an exit. Music is already playing, and three boys are doing backflips off the stage, twisting at the end of leaps to just barely avoid a collision, laughing when the beat begins to slow and a pair of MCs with giant cue cards slink to the front of the stage. One of them is tall and thin and wearing oversized plastic frames and slurs his words. It's cute, and Junmyeon muffles a smile with the back of his hand.  
  
Taeyeon doesn't come on until much later--after a set of five breakdancers and four girls harmonizing a cappella. Junmyeon's already getting worried about how much time he's spent outside of the palace, wondering whether anyone's started sending out search parties and calling for his immediate retrieval, but when ten girls take the stage and Junmyeon remembers Taeyeon's voice and her hands and her smile, he shoves his hands into his pockets and balls his fists and leans forward excitedly, refusing to be distracted by anything else. He's come this far, after all.  
  
She's amazing, as expected. She twists and turns and never misses a step, even when she's singing. Junmyeon's never heard the song before and he doesn't particularly like it, isn't really fond of the colors on her leggings or how the vocals stop mid-way through the music for an oddly parsed rap section and a dance break that Taeyeon isn't part of. But Junmyeon likes the way lights catch in her hair and he likes the way she smiles and holds the hands of her fellow performers when they take their final bows and exit the stage. She seems suited for the stage, he realizes, as perfect a fit as anything.  
  
She looks for him, right at the back, knowing exactly where he'd choose to sit, a corner with ample shadow close to an emergency exit. And she doesn't wave--she's more discreet than that--just winks and bows and smiles the way she used to when they'd first met and were still learning how to draw lines between their bodies and social circumstances.  
  
 _Thank you for coming_ , he reads in the long lines of her body, the curve of an exposed shoulder, the flush of her skin.  
  
He remembers the way she kicked at the air when she told him how much she loved music and wonders if this performance is her way of breaking up with him, is her attempt at closure. He smiles.  
  
Junmyeon can't fault her that. He wants to--he'd given her a _chance_ , after all, he'd offered her everything he had to give, but Junmyeon finds that he's still in love with her, that he still looks for her when she's left the stage and the MCs have moved onto introducing a new boy group debuting in the fall. He can't blame her for letting go of his hand when she had this, when she had music.  
  
Junmyeon's phone buzzes and he silences it. He watches the rest of the showcase disinterestedly, and slips out of of his seat right at the end when Taeyeon's made her final bow. A few boys rush up and hand her flowers, and she kneels, giving them her full attention, stage lights bathing her hair golden.  
  
Junmyeon pushes at the emergency door dejectedly. He never could have given her flowers.  
  
The night air is cold on his face, and Junmyeon pulls his jacket closer to his body, tucking hands deep into his pockets. He hunches slightly and tugs his cap further over his head. No one expects to recognize him, of course, so they don't. The streets are full of litter and gum niblets and trash that hasn't been picked up in about a day. _Longing_ , Junmyeon thinks, remembering golden hair under his hands and the taste of Taeyeon's cheap lip gloss. _Something untouchable._ He shivers into the feeling.  
  
He buys a beer at a convenience store with one of the few bills he has left. Over the years it's gotten harder to secret away cash, harder to explain why he should need anything so commonplace when he has cards linked to accounts filled with tax funds. One day he knows he'll have nothing left, and that will be the very end of his freedom.  
  
The cashier dumps a few coins in his hand, and Junmyeon slips them into his pocket carefully and walks around until he finds a bench in front of a backlit office building.  
  
The can fizzles when Junmyeon opens it, and the beer tastes soapy and stale. He finishes it anyway, nails digging into his palms to stop himself from throwing it all back up, even licking at his lips to wipe away the sticky foam. The bench is icy under his legs, chill slowly seeping through his jeans. His hands feel numb.  
  
When he's done with the drink he feels light-headed and sick. He tosses it in the trash, digs his phone out of his pocket to call Sunghwan for a ride, steadying himself against a lightpost, and realizes he's missed three texts, all, disappointingly, from Jongdae, all variations on a theme: _I need to go home_ , he's written. _I miss my family. Please._  
  
Junmyeon doesn't respond. He pockets his mobile and walks back the way he came, back to the car he's left parked outside of BOA Entertainment, unlocks the door, and connects his bluetooth.  
  
"Sunghwan," he breathes when the man's answered, head flush against the leather of his steering wheel, fingers digging into his arms, "pick me up."  
  
"Yes, Your Highness." No reprimand. No _we've been looking for you_. No blame. No hysteria.  
  
Even Sunghwan's use of his title rankles at him. Junmyeon's stomach seizes, and for a moment he wonders what would have happened had he had parents to call about this sort of thing. He wonders whether they would scolded him or comforted him. "Hurry," he slurs instead, more nauseated than drunk, "I'm exhausted."  
  
"Yes, Your Highness."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't belong in this car, in the front seat. He doesn't belong in this parking lot, on this street, in this section of town. It's suffocating and unfamiliar--all of Seoul is perpetually unfamiliar.  
  
Jongdae probably knows it like the back of his hand. He knows how to ride subways, read bus maps, and book train tickets. He has friends he can call when he's alone and stranded, too tipsy to drive but not drunk enough to thoughtlessly make terrible decisions. Junmyeon has never been drunk enough to be thoughtless.  
  
Another text comes in. Junmyeon glances at it. _You're a selfish piece of shit_ , Jongdae's written.  
  
And then, simultaneously, from Taeyeon: _Thank you for coming. It meant a lot to me._  
  
Junmyeon laughs so hard his eyes water. He writes back, _You were beautiful_ , thinking of golden hair and silks that rustle with every slight motion, of swinging jewels and the curve of a shoulder, of a palace thick with expectation and moderated behavior and of a stage bright with spotlights, and isn't sure who he sends it to.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Jongdae doesn't eat anything at breakfast. He looks thin and pale and withdrawn, and his language is sharper than usual when he asks for his own car to take to school. The Queen Mother laughs and Jongdae bows a bit in response, cowed by her admission that it would be best for the royal family to be more frugal in this economy, but if Jongdae is sure that it's important that he travel on his own rather than share with the Crown Prince, perhaps they could work something out.  
  
"I'm sorry for asking, Your Majesty. It's not that important." Jongdae gulps at his tea and the King smiles. "I just didn't want to slow the Prince down in the morning. He always seems to be in _such_ a hurry."  
  
They look like a perfectly happy family. Even the aides look relaxed, and take their time serving crumpets and scones with the drinks no one but Jongdae's touched. Junmyeon wonders if Jongdae is stupid or still hasn't learned to read the mood of a table, and moves to take the china out of his hand.  
  
"We're going to be late."  
  
"I don't have class until noon," Jongdae retorts, taking back his cup.  
  
Junmyeon has no idea if that's true or not. He's not even sure what kind of classes Jongdae even takes as a music major. Junmyeon could probably ask Taeyeon. If they're on speaking terms.  
  
"But I have class at nine. Let's go." Junmyeon gets up, and when Jongdae doesn't follow, leisurely drinking his tea and smiling and altogether looking perfectly content and _pleased_ to sit there and participate in a thousand-year-old worthless tradition of greeting the elders of the royal family every morning over dessert, Junmyeon loses it. He grabs at Jongdae's wrist and stalks out of the room, ignoring Jongdae's startled gasp and slight tumble over the saddle in the doorway.  
  
"The fuck are you doing," Jongdae seethes, tugging his arm away. Junmyeon doesn't let him move away. "I realize you're maniacally bipolar, but can you stop hurting me?"  
  
"We're going to school."  
  
"I need to change. I thought you didn't care what I did anyway. We don't have to be nice to each other, we just have to be civil."  
  
Junmyeon stares at Jongdae roughly. "Then stop texting me asking me to go home. Stop skipping meals. Stop--" _making me worry_ and Junmyeon swallows, unsure where that thought comes from. Because he's not worried. Jongdae looks pale and dizzy but otherwise perfectly fine, perfectly fucking-- "stop it. If you need something, demand it. It's your right. And don't drink at the table."  
  
It's not fair. Junmyeon feel overwhelmed by isolation.  
  
"I thought I was supposed to greet your parents in the morning. That's what Sunghwan taught me."  
  
"The King and Queen," Junmyeon corrects automatically. "Did you finish the Book of Filial Piety yet?"  
  
"What does that have to--"  
  
Junmyeon twists Jongdae's arm more roughly. Jongdae winces, but otherwise remains standing--hair unmussed, sleeves clean, suit perfectly pressed. "Answer me."  
  
"You're really disgusting. Yes. I finally finished it."  
  
Jongdae looks like a prince, Junmyeon thinks. He's even wearing BB cream to cover the deep bags under his eyes. He wears loneliness well.  
  
Junmyeon lets go, hand prickling. "Good for you. Finally doing everything right. Just like I asked." The haunted look in his eyes, Junmyeon is sure, hadn't been there the day of their wedding. He'd been beautiful, not terrified.  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jongdae hisses as Junmyeon turns away. Jongdae doesn't touch him, just follows along, stride lengthening to catch up. He doesn't run. Once upon a time, Jongdae would have been running in the halls. Once upon a time Jongdae would have grabbed at Junmyeon's shoulder and would have shouted at him, heedless of the dozens of ears and eyes trained on their every movement.  
  
"We have school," Junmyeon manages to repeat. They're in the atrium of their shared suite. Jongdae steps back, sits on one of the couches Junmyeon's had sent up to fill the space between their rooms, and rests his head in his hands. Junmyeon feels sick watching him slump into the fabric.  
  
"Do what you want. I'm tired of you."  
  
"Of this place," Junmyeon corrects. "I was going to see if I could send you--"  
  
"No. Of you. I don't hate the palace. I don't hate your family--"  
  
"The _King_ and _Queen_ \--"  
  
"--I hate _you._."  
  
"--and I'm both your husband and your Crown Prince, and you should _address me as such._ "  
  
Jongdae stares at him, mouth curled into a sneer. "Fine, _seja_. I hate you. You have made me miserable. Congratulations. I'd throw you a party, but we both know that's prohibited."  
  
The name prickles at Junmyeon's spine. Taeyeon never called him that. "You signed up for this. You knew what you were getting into. But it was just _such_ a good opportunity for you," Junmyeon spits, ears burning. This isn't what he'd wanted to say. But Jongdae throws his composure for a loop every time, all his prepared words slipping away in the face of confrontation.  
  
He'd wanted to ask why Jongdae isn't sleeping, whether Sunghwan had removed that painting from his room, whether Jongdae still wants to go home. He wants to ask whether Jongdae had gotten a text from him last night. He wants to ask whether Jongdae knows what that performance meant. He wants to ask Jongdae if he's really lost everything, now. Whether he's lonely. Whether he understands.  
  
Junmyeon's never met anyone else who can understand.  
  
"You are never going to let me live that down, are you?"  
  
Junmyeon winces. "No," he says, already regretting the words. "Never."  
  
"Fuck you." Jongdae says it entirely without malice, though, getting up out of his chair tiredly, feet unsteady. "I'll be ready in a few minutes. I need to change."  
  
Jongdae closes his door quietly, but the click of the lock is still deafening, still shakes Junmyeon to his core. Jongdae had looked good in his pale blue suit this morning, hair combed neatly to the side, eyes wide and lips thin. He'd belonged in that room. He'd been confident and clumsy and hadn't observed proper protocol in the least, but no one had reprimanded him because it had been _nice._  
  
The atrium feels huge and empty without Jongdae. Junmyeon hadn't realized how noisy the Consort could be when he was walking or bumping into things or casually gossiping with the staff. Junmyeon hadn't realized how well Jongdae managed to insert himself into palace life, even without Junmyeon's help. He hadn't even realized how often he'd started to hang around the space between their rooms just to see Jongdae lounging around with the palace maids.  
  
Even the rumors around campus had begun to quiet down. Jongdae, Junmyeon realizes, has adjusted.  
  
Jongdae emerges from his room in his uniform, hair still swept to the side of his face, uniform crisp and well-fitting. "You haven't changed yet?" His tone is frosty, but Junmyeon almost doesn't notice, still fixated on how absurd it is that he could live in the palace for over a decade and never feel at home in its gilded walls and thick, stifling carpets, but Jongdae could adapt within weeks of his arrival.  
  
Not commiseration, then. Definitely jealousy.  
  
"I'm going to change. Right now."  
  
"We'll be late."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't answer. He locks himself in his room and leans against the door, suddenly exhausted. His mouth is dry and he can't even bring himself to conjure up soothing memories of running through the streets of Seoul, of waiting at train stations, of lying on park benches, or of Taeyeon's hand in his. Instead he thinks about Jongdae's rigid posture and rolled-down sleeves. Instead he thinks about the rest of his life and the weight of the King's crown.  
  
"We're going to be late!" Jongdae calls from the hall.  
  
Junmyeon bites his lip and whispers, "I know."

♙♟♙

  
The group has lunch with Taeyeon that afternoon, cheeks still flushed from the excitement of her performance. Neither Junmyeon nor Taeyeon mention that Junmyeon had been there, but she passes around the photos excitedly, and Baekhyun pockets two before anyone notices. Yifan claps him over the head, Baekhyun delicately comments on Taeyeon's outfit ("Who even picks these clothes? It looks like something a mass-murderer would wear." "It's all very expensive. Designed by Jeremy Scott." "It's still hideous.") and Zitao ignores them all in favor of buying a few new bags online, tapping away at his iPad meticulously, bracelets clinking.  
  
"So how is married life treating you these days?" Yixing asks eventually. Taeyeon averts her eyes and scoots closer to Baekhyun at the table, and Junmyeon pretends not to notice. "Slept together yet? You look exhausted, maybe--"  
  
"I told you not to ask." Junmyeon rolls his eyes. "And don't speculate."  
  
Baekhyun snorts. "What else would we do with our time? Come on, does the duckling still not put out?"  
  
The word throws Junmyeon for a moment. "Duckling?"  
  
Zitao smirks and folds the cover over his iPad leisurely. "That's what they've been calling him. The ugly duckling that can't become a swan."  
  
Even Taeyeon laughs at that one. All of them do, heads back, shoulders shaking, enjoying unrestrained amusement. Junmyeon takes a breath and refuses to react, pulling his headphones out of his pocket, unraveling the long cord that's tangled them, and slipping them into his ears. They start to buzz, even without the presence of music, and it's a long moment before Junmyeon realizes that he's actually angry.  
  
"There's a line," he reminds them, speaking over the rush of blood to his face, "and you're crossing it."  
  
But Baekhyun leans over Zitao's shoulder and makes another crude gesture with his fingers, one arm still looped around Yifan's waist. Junmyeon closes his eyes to block out the sight and misses them paring off, peeling away to go join other groups of friends or surf the net at their desks. His pulse is still escalated, and it takes him time to unobtrusively calm down. Better not to see. Better not to have to respond.  
  
Not that he could have told them how different Jongdae is these days. How much more princely he's become. And even if Junmyeon can't imagine sharing a room for an hour with Jongdae, much less a bed, the Consort is still _his_. Their lack of respect is an insult to him as well. One entity invested in two bodies.  
  
Junmyeon worries at his bottom lip so intently that he almost misses the sharp buzz of his cell.  
  
It's Taeyeon. _Meet me by the back stairwell. I have something for you._  
  
He snaps the phone shut, glad for the distraction.  
  
The emergency stairs are at the back of the music department--outside of the specially reinforced walls of the building devoted to film and photography. It's an older building--it has doors that don't close all the way and warped, wooden floors that creak and desks with rusty hinges. Junmyeon remembers when Taeyeon had first found the only fire escape door that didn't set off an alarm when opened, a perfect haven for secret best friends to sit and swap stories during school hours. He'd congratulated her on her resourcefulness, and she'd grinned and leaned up to tangle hands in his hair and pressed her lips against his.  
  
That had been their third kiss.  
  
She's already there when Junmyeon arrives, closing the door behind him and leaning back, crossing his arms. Her skirt is as long as it usually is, she's wearing the same socks, and Junmyeon can almost imagine that nothing has changed, that he's not married, that she's not on her way to becoming a star. His heart stutters.  
  
"They liked my performance. I'm debuting in June."  
  
"Will you be able to graduate?"  
  
"I hope so." Taeyeon kicks at the ground, and Junmyeon shivers at the memory. "Come sit--I have something for you."  
  
"Taeyeon. We ended this. We can talk, but we can't be friends."  
  
She doesn't miss a beat. "I didn't end anything. You just got married. That doesn't mean anything has to change--we've never been bound by any rules."  
  
"You didn't pick me." Her roots are starting to show, and Junmyeon wonders whether she's not allowed to dye her hair either these days. "That means it's over."  
  
"Are you angry that I didn't pick you?"  
  
"I'm not angry." And it's almost true. Junmyeon is glad Taeyeon can still smile--he's glad she hasn't turned into Jongdae: thin and frail and constantly angry. He's glad she hasn't been stuffed into silk hanboks and heavy makeup--he doesn't think she'd have weathered the transition all that well. But he regrets that after making her choose, she hadn't picked him. She'd picked life and music and fans over him, and it stings.  
  
"Then?" Taeyeon pauses. "Do you love Jongdae?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous." Junmyeon bites his lip and sighs, already exhausted by the exchange. It's not about whether or not Junmyeon loves Jongdae, this is about Taeyeon. Or, rather, this is about who Junmyeon has to be, and who he cannot be with Taeyeon. "That shouldn't matter--that isn't your concern any longer."  
  
"Of course it is. I still love you."  
  
The staircase is oddly quiet, totally secluded from the rest of the building. Junmyeon feels wind on his face and closes his eyes, relaxing into the gust of freedom. Taeyeon's hands find his leg and pull him down to sit with her on the steps.  
  
Junmyeon's cell phone buzzes. He ignores it, and joins her on the floor.  
  
"What do you have for me?"  
  
She's too close, Junmyeon thinks, watching her tug something out of her bag. He can smell her perfume--her shampoo, even, if that's the sharp wintery scent underlying her citrus body spray. And when she turns back to him, he can see each of her lashes delicately coated with mascara. It's very pretty. It's almost like how his mother does her makeup.  
  
"A CD," she whispers. "I recorded all of these songs myself. I wrote the first three. And the title track is about you."  
  
There's pink gloss covering her lips, and just a hint of blush along her cheeks. Even Jongdae had been wearing more makeup on his wedding day than Taeyeon usually bothers with. It would be so easy to fall into this, he thinks. He almost could--sneaking around and becoming Kim Junmyeon at night, keeping the stiff facade of _seja_ for inside the palace walls. Junmyeon can almost imagine being happy like this. It couldn't last indefinitely, and one day Taeyeon would be too busy with her idol activities to play with him any longer, and then they'd both be miserable and trapped and still desperately alone inside of the constructs they've surrounded themselves with.  
  
Junmyeon smiles minutely. "We can't do this," he says, even as he accepts the gift, hands brushing against her fingers. "I'm married." That isn't the reason why, Junmyeon realizes. but it's enough of one.  
  
"That's okay." Her breath is close enough to tickle his cheek, curls of her hair falling onto his shoulder, "I doubt the little duckling's done much more than kiss your hands. I can accept that."  
  
The moment shatters. This is not something Kim Junmyeon should have to hear. This is something the _seja_ should take care of.  
  
Junmyeon wonders if this is how Taeyeon has always seen him. "What did you call him?"  
  
"Oh. Duckling. Didn't you hear earlier? That's what everyone is--"  
  
Junmyeon pulls his hands away and brushes them off on his trousers. Suddenly he feels dirty, angry, and very alone. The breeze is cold on his cheek. He feels his chest compress and wonders if this is how they will end: memories darkening, reality pervading what had once been so honest and open and free. Junmyeon can almost feel it happen in real-time: outings colored by this new perception, kisses stained with the understanding that Taeyeon had been looking at and touching someone who might never have existed, who Junmyeon had been trying so hard to erase.  
  
Junmyeon's phone vibrates again. This time he opens it. It's a text from Yixing.  
  
 _Your husband's collapsed. They're looking for you._  
  
He's the _seja._ Junmyeon takes a deep breath, _I'm the Crown Prince._ "I have to go," he says, voice strangely hoarse. "Don't follow me out."  
  
"I wouldn't. Is everything okay?" She reaches out and moves to touch Junmyeon's arm.  
  
It's comfort he can't accept from her any longer. She never could have worn those heavy wedding ornaments and layers of silk, Junmyeon realizes. She might have withered under them. But Jongdae could--and had. And continues to. Junmyeon is oddly grateful for that. At least it had been someone who had known who Junmyeon was. No illusions. No expectations.  
  
"I have to go," he repeats, mind whirling. This is a PR disaster waiting to happen. He is the _seja_ , and this is his consort. This is his mess. "I have to go."  
  
" _Junmyeon_ \--"  
  
Taeyeon's hair looks golden brown in the light. Junmyeon remembers a sunset, remembers three years of friendship, and sets his lips.  
  
"I am your Crown Prince," he reminds her, turning his back and moving for the door. "Remember that."  
  
  
  
  
  
It's easy to follow the rush of bodies towards what must be Jongdae's classroom, easier still to command them to step aside. Jongdae is already surrounded by their bodyguards, and so Junmyeon relaxes, worry evaporating slightly. He’ll still have to deal with the political ramifications of however Jongdae’s managed to fuck up this time, but at least he’s not alone. The palace is dealing with this.  
  
"Move," Junmyeon barks. A sea of students part before him almost reverently, heads bowed. It’s a sharp contrast to how he’s seen them speak to Jongdae. _I am the seja_ , he thinks. _And Jongdae is my Prince Consort._ Even when Junmyeon had wanted to be treated like a commoner, he never had been. It is unacceptable that the rules might be different for Jongdae. Jongdae is more than himself now. He’s a prince of Korea. He cannot have friends, and he cannot have equals. He can have only subjects.  
  
And Junmyeon is the only one allowed to torment him.  
  
Junmyeon follows the entourage down the stairs, out of the music department's building, and into the courtyard where the driveway extends into campus. He trains his face into impassivity. _I am the seja_ , he thinks again and again, a litany that seems like half fact, half promise. Photographs are taken from every angle. For everyone else in the world, this is an event. For Junmyeon, this is a slow realization of everything his parents have been training for him in life. He will never be just another student at school sharing pens and desks and fighting over grades. He’ll always be a world apart. The only difference between the Junmyeon now and the Junmyeon who’d been starry-eyed at fourteen, thinking he’d blended in with the commoners so well, is that this Junmyeon is finally self-aware enough to realize that for as long as he keeps his title, his entire world will be defined by it.  
  
As they get to the car, Jongdae starts to stir. The guards help Jongdae into his seat and Junmyeon hesitates before reaching over the empty seat and helping Jongdae's head slide down the leather until Jongdae is horizontal, hair pillowing on Junmyeon's left thigh. _You’re the Prince Consort_ , Junmyeon thinks. And then, _I’m sorry._  
  
"Where," Jongdae mumbles, eyes still closed, sweat breaking out all over his forehead.  
  
"Shh," Junmyeon says. His hand moves to sweep the bangs away from Jongdae's face, but he pauses before completing the motion. Jongdae is touching more of Junmyeon's skin than anyone but Taeyeon has in years. Even for show, this is a stretch. Even out of pity, this is too much. "We're going back to the palace." He’d loved Taeyeon. He really had.  
  
"Home," Jongdae whimpers. "Home, please. Home home home."  
  
Jongdae--that strong sarcastic asshole who would rather take a bus home than accept Junmyeon's phone number--is trembling; Junmyeon can feel it, gentle vibrations through his leg. _There is no such thing at home anymore,_ Junmyeon cannot say. _Not for us. Never again for us._ He nods stiffly and retracts his hand. "We're going," he starts, and then, unwilling to complete the lie, just repeats: "Yes. Yes. Home."  
  
They make it back to the palace faster than Junmyeon expected, almost faster than he wants, even, eyes still trained on Jongdae's forehead and mussed up hair, on the loneliness etched into his face, on the small, almost imperceptible feelings of camaraderie Junmyeon begins to feel, and when the team of nurses and doctors on standby help Jongdae out of the car, Junmyeon remains in his seat, thigh still tingling with the weight of Jongdae's body.  
  
It hadn't, he registers retrospectively, been all that heavy of one. In fact, it almost hadn’t felt like a weight at all.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Junmyeon spends hours watching Jongdae toss and turn in his sleep, arm tugging at the IV line the nursing staff had set up during their reprimand of Sunghwan for his inattention to Jongdae's diet. "He's severely malnourished. And with all this stress--"  
  
Junmyeon interrupts. "Stress?"  
  
The nurses shrug carefully, lowering their heads. "Stress of school, of marriage--we can't tell you what exactly might have precipitated his collapse, but being nineteen can be a difficult age."  
  
Junmyeon manages not to roll his eyes. "Thank you for your insight," he says insincerely, pulling up a chair beside Jongdae's bedside, "you may leave." He wonders if Jongdae would be pleased that he bothered thanking them at all. It’s a very unseemly thing to do.  
  
It's hours before Jongdae moves. Junmyeon drifts off once or twice, always jolting awake and hurriedly checking that Jongdae's still breathing before uncomfortably rearranging his uniform. He wants to change, but every time he gets up he finds himself drawn in again by Jongdae’s face, by the creases of loneliness in his eyes. Every time he thinks _this is me_ and finds himself seated again, hands resting on Jongdae's blanket, just close enough that if Jongdae stirs Junmyeon might feel it, but not close enough to touch Jongdae's fevered skin.  
  
And so Junmyeon watches every labored breath, every drop of sweat wind around Jongdae's cheekbones, and every tear slithering out of the corner of his eye as he whispers for his family in muted desperation. Junmyeon wonders if he ever looked like this, cried like this in front of someone else. What they had done. What _could_ they have done. _Everything will be okay_ , is a lie, as is _I’m here for you._ Junmyeon wonders if this is how his mother had felt, hearing that he’d torn apart his darkroom in desperation. Helpless. Hopeless. _Trapped._  
  
 _I've made you miserable_ , Junmyeon realizes. _I've made you lonely. I've made you into me._  
  
Junmyeon hadn't protested the marriage because he thought it wouldn't matter who he married if it wasn’t going to be Taeyeon. He’d known it would be cruel to trap someone inside of the _goong_ , but Taeyeon’s hopes and Taeyeon’s dreams had been only ones that had felt real. And now—now he isn’t sure that any of that’s factually changed, but he certainly feels empathetic. He looks at Jongdae and he sees himself, and wonders whether he’s done someone else a great, great wrong.  
  
Eventually, Jongdae opens his eyes and blinks sleepily. Junmyeon swallows his relief and banishes his thoughts.  
  
"You awake?" Junmyeon is surprised by how calm his voice sounds. "Can you hear me?"  
  
Jongdae hums. "M'awake. Why are you here?"  
  
"Watching--waiting for you to get up."  
  
"Why am--"  
  
"We're in the palace. You fainted at school, and so you were taken home to recuperate."  
  
Jongdae laughs and tries to sit up, but his hands give way. Junmyeon is frozen into inaction, unsure whether rushing forward to help is something he's allowed to do, whether it would be a welcome gesture when it’s so meaningless. Eventually Jongdae sinks back into the pillows, solving the dilemma, and Junmyeon can breathe again. "Don't say things like that," Jongdae says, "you sound like you were worried."  
  
"What are you talking about? Of course I was worried.”  
  
"About me? Why?" Jongdae frowns. "It's not like you usually give a damn about what I do as long as I finish my lessons at Seohandang and stay out of your way."  
  
"I'm worried because you're being bullied. Because you aren't--" Junmyeon fumbles for the right words, and then leans back, removing his hands from Jongdae's cover. "Why are you being bullied? You're the Prince Consort--you're _royalty_. Start asserting yourself. It reflects badly on me if you don't. I warned you about this.”  
  
"Ha," Jongdae murmurs, eyes fluttering shut again, wrinkles appearing on his forehead, "I knew this was somehow about you. I'm lying here and the world is spinning and I might throw up all over myself, but you're still worried about your reputation. So glad there are some things that never change. I might be sick, but you're still an asshole."  
  
"I am the Crown Prince. This entire country ought to be extremely concerned with my opinions."  
  
"Forgive me for not being more considerate, Your Highness."  
  
It sounds wrong coming from Jongdae. It sounds resigned. "Look," Junmyeon says finally, realizing he’s making things worse, "I'll leave you alone. You're still dazed."  
  
Before Junmyeon can get up, Jongdae's hand snakes out from underneath his covers and grabs at Junmyeon's sleeve. "Can I--wait. Junmyeon, is there any way I can go home for a bit? I'm sick, I'm really sick. I can't even move without shaking, and I think being at home for a while might help." He swallows. "This is really important to me."  
  
Jongdae is much slimmer than he was before their marriage. Junmyeon remembers grabbing a wrist that was wiry and muscular. Now Jongdae's arm is stick thin and his face is almost gaunt. His eyes have lost some of their luster, and even his hair lies flatter, it seems.  
  
Junmyeon remembers how he'd almost gotten on a train to Busan and left the kingdom behind. He also remembers that even at sixteen he'd realized that there were some things that he would never be free to do. As much as Junmyeon wants to escape, as badly and vividly as he dreams of Paris and selling art on the Seine, he also knows that as of right now, he is still the Crown Prince, and must still pay homage to his responsibilities.  
  
But Jongdae is different. Jongdae obeys the rules because he knows Junmyeon thinks it's important. But Jongdae doesn't find those rules inherently important in the least. Tradition doesn't cow him. Opulence doesn't shock him. Fame hasn't changed him. Jongdae would be able to get on a bus to Busan and never come back again. Jongdae still thinks he can go home--still thinks he has a home outside of the palace.  
  
Junmyeon had considered indulging him in that. He hadn’t realized that it would be cruel to extend the farce, to allow Jongdae a Taeyeon, a false crutch. It would kind to let him struggle in the short term.  
  
"Home," Jongdae repeats. He still looks feverish. Junmyeon closes his eyes, remembers the memo that Sungwhan had written last week on the _honhaeng_ , the history of royal traditions and visits by the newly married couple to the home of the bride, and pulls away.  
  
"I can't let you go," he says, "it's not permitted. I'm sorry."  
  
Jongdae laughs, and it's a bitter, helpless thing. "No," he says, turning away to face the opposite wall. "You're not sorry at all."  
  
The line of Jongdae's neck is taut and severe against the heavily embroidered fabric of his comforter. Junmyeon feels his chest swell with discomfort.  
  
He leaves.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Rumors start circulating again. This time they're crueler, insidious, more focused on Jongdae's well-being and Junmyeon's inattentiveness than anything else. They even trickle into the mainstream papers, low-res images from student cellphones capturing Jongdae's meltdown plastered all over front pages, right above the fold. Headlines like _Royal Marriage or Royal Bullshit?_ and _Public Hoodwinked Again By PR? Blissful Couple Not Looking So Happy_.  
  
The Queen Mother slams a copy of the Times down over breakfast. Junmyeon closes his eyes softly, ignoring the empty place on his right where Jongdae ought to be. His fever had subsided earlier that morning, but Jongdae was still refusing to eat, so the nursing staff had ordered to remain in bed, hooked up to the IV.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" she asks, face reddened. It's the only indication of her displeasure. Even the King moves to grab another buttered scone instead of reacting.  
  
"Exactly what the article says," Junmyeon replies woodenly. "Jongdae fainted at school."  
  
"And the bullying? Is that true?"  
  
"I wouldn't know. We aren't in any of the same classes."  
  
The Queen sets her cup down on the table overly firmly, and her saucer rattles. "You go to his school. You're his _husband._ "  
  
"Only on paper," Junmyeon reminds her. "This wasn't exactly my idea of a political marriage. I thought you'd pick someone a little more appropriate."  
  
The King sucks in a breath. "How dare you," he says almost incredulously. "How _dare_ you?"  
  
Junmyeon isn't sure what's wrong with him. It's like the words are exploding out of him. _You are the Crown Prince,_ he reminds himself, but this is the palace. This is the only place his words can be swallowed by silence and ignored. He might as well make free use of them.  
  
"We like the Consort," the Queen Mother reminds Junmyeon. "He's a breath of fresh air in the palace. He's been a boon to our family, and before this _incident_ ," she shivers delicately over her tea and Junmyeon only barely manages not to roll his eyes at the absurdity of her over-dramatization, "he was responsible for a thirteen percent increase in our popularity among taxpayers."  
  
"The most important thing, of course," Junmyeon quips. He's tired of this--this room, these people, the sham of a family they're maintaining. "Jongdae does everything wrong. He's a terrible consort--no one even thinks of him as my husband. It makes sense that he's exhausted from all the pressure you've put him under. Just leave it be."  
  
"People don't think of him as your husband because _you_ don't think of him that way," the King replies. "If you can't lead by example, you'll never be a suitable replacement for me. I knew your silence these past few days was too good to be true. You've always been contrary and disobedient."  
  
Junmyeon sets his teeth. It always comes back to his responsibility. _I do my best._ "Then find someone else. I believe my cousin is still alive? We can look for him."  
  
" _Seja_."  
  
The Queen Mother holds up her hand, and silence falls. "Perhaps we have been remiss in emphasizing the steadfastness of the Prince's marriage. We delayed the _hapbang_ initially because of their age--but perhaps that was a mistake. They are certainly old enough to be sleeping together. At the Prince's age, he is old enough to have had his first child."  
  
Junmyeon feels himself bristle with horror. "My consort won't be giving me children, Your Majesty."  
  
She ignores him. "You'll share rooms tonight, as is customary. In the morning you'll attend a gallery opening and give the press the chance to ask about your _hapbang_. Hopefully that'll resolve the issue."  
  
The Queen frowns. "If they ask about the bullying?"  
  
"Simple: they're boys. They roughhouse. The Consort's been delicate because of all the stresses of marriage, but he and the Crown Prince are perfectly happy with one another. After all, this was a marriage of love, not of convenience."  
  
Junmyeon barely stifles a snort. "Lovely story," he says nastily, jerking out of his chair, "I'll be sure to memorize it."  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
"Sunghwan," Junmyeon calls, stalking down the halls furiously, "how is the Consort doing?"  
  
"He's awake now. Still a bit feverish, from what I last heard."  
  
"Have his parents arrived yet?"  
  
"The Prince Consort didn't want his family to be notified of his illness. He asked me not to call them."  
  
Junmyeon pauses mid-step. "What? He'd been begging me to let him go home just the other day, which is why I asked you to alert them. He said he missed them. He said he needed them." This entire day, Junmyeon has decided, is driving him crazy. Nothing is making sense--Junmyeon's not even sure _he's_ making any sense. The Consort, he’d decided, couldn’t go home, but he could have his parents here as long as they remembered that Jongdae was not their son, he was their Prince. As long as palace etiquette was observed, he wouldn’t come to rely on them. He would remain untouched and alone, just like Junmyeon.  
  
The constant comparisons between himself and his mother, Junmyeon thinks, are starting to scare him.  
  
"His Highness decided that his family would be upset if they saw him like this and couldn't do anything for him," Sungwhan continues softly, closing his velvet-covered schedule book. "Do you want me to convey your displeasure?"  
  
Sunghwan's tone is doing a fantastic job of conveying _his_ displeasure at the notion. Junmyeon feels himself sigh. "No," he says bitterly, thinking about all the irritation and frustration Jongdae's been sublimating. Junmyeon remembers the first time they'd met, Jongdae admitting that he'd been willing to marry Junmyeon to protect his family's welfare, to give away all chances at pursing a career and future of his own choosing, and remembers his own logic, his shame at emulating what his parents have done to him.  
  
He finds that he’s laughing. The sound echoes in the empty halls.  
  
"Your Highness?"  
  
Junmyeon lifts a hand. "It's just funny. The Prince shouldn't have been assigned the Book of Filial Piety--it was a waste of time. He was already more filial than anyone could have wished. Certainly more filial than me."  
  
Sunghwan muffles a smile. "You seem to be getting along with him much better, these days."  
  
Junmyeon lets the comment slide because Sunghwan been his advisor since he was five, tolerating every rule break, every tantrum, every outburst. He's had pillows thrown at his head and watched Junmyeon tear apart his darkroom in a fit of pique. He's picked Junmyeon up in the middle of the night from streets he probably never should have known about and has never asked a single question or broken a single confidence. He's allowed to say things that can't and won't ever be true.  
  
"You're wrong," Junmyeon says, shaking his head slightly. "We're just not all that different. Anymore, at least. Assign him the _Analects_ next. I think he'd appreciate it. I certainly did, once upon a time."  
  
Sunghwan bows and leaves him. And Junmyeon turns over the words in his head— _not that different. The two of us._  
  
He wonders, for a very split second, eyes trained on the wooden trellises adorning the hallway walls, whether two lonely people can ever comfort each other. It’s a silly idea, of course. But tempting.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"How are you feeling?" Junmyeon slips into the atrium and links his hands behind his back, walking up to where Jongdae is sitting.  
  
Jongdae doesn't reply immediately, just turns away from Junmyeon and curls up further into one of the atrium couches. His pale green pajamas are striking again the deep golds of the cushions, and Junmyeon feels his mouth dry up slightly, awed by how perfectly Jongdae seems to fit into Junmyeon's spaces. It’s an instinctive reaction that he dismisses immediately, but it reminds him of a boy in blue silks who had walked so gracefully up to the pavilion where they’d be married. Of the few things Junmyeon actually found beautiful, still, about the palace.  
  
Junmyeon takes a seat and grabs a biography he'd left in the atrium a few days previously, rifling through the table of contents to see if anything looks familiar, if he can remember where he'd left off. Nothing does. After a long moment, Jongdae sets his feet down on the carpet.  
  
"I heard about tonight's schedule from Sunghwan. We can't have children, so why do they want us to share a room?"  
  
" _Hapbang_ ," Junmyeon recites, turning a page in the book entirely at random. He'd almost forgotten. "I don't want to talk about it right now."  
  
"I just don't really know how productive it's supposed to be if--"  
  
Junmyeon's fingers shake. He takes a deep breath. "Can we just sit here peacefully, please? It's been a long day."  
  
"--we won't be able to show them proof that we slept together or anything."  
  
"Because it's tradition, Jongdae." Because it's penance. Because I am the _seja_ and I haven’t told a convincing enough story about our marriage yet. Because this is the third act of a play.  
  
"That's always your answer."  
  
Junmyeon slams the volume shut. "Because it's always the only answer I can give you. Do you really think I want to sleep with you like this? Or at all?" He regrets the words immediately—they’re cruel and dismissive, and Jongdae hadn’t deserved that, not yet—but it's too late to take them back. They hang in the air, thick and heavy, swelling to fill the space between them,  
  
To his credit, Jongdae doesn't even wince. "The only thing you like doing is yelling. I know you don't give a damn about me. I'm amazed you have the emotional capacity of caring about anyone but yourself most days."  
  
The words hurt, but Junmyeon supposes that he almost deserves them. "Fine. Whatever," he says, closing his eyes. "Stop wasting my time with idiotic questions and get ready. Shower. Brush your teeth. I don't want my sleep disturbed because you can't practice proper hygiene."  
  
"You are horrible," Jongdae seethes, shutting the door to his room. The soft snick of the knob echoes in the atrium just as Junmyeon feels himself collapse into his chair, wind blown out of him. He wonders whether Jongdae even thinks about the press, the velvet reports about popular opinion, the tax money set aside for their living expenses. _I am horrible_ , Junmyeon thinks, opening his eyes and staring at the gilded molding circling the ceiling. _The goong has made me horrible._  
  
Minutes pass. Junmyeon wonders whether this wing has always been so quiet, whether he'd ever spent this much time in the space between their rooms waiting for something to happen. He doesn't think so. And yet, it's not an uncomfortable feeling--watching Jongdae's door for any sign of movement, breath held, time arrested in a pregnant pause. Junmyeon isn’t alone, at least.  
  
After a few heartbeats, Junmyeon starts to hear a soft melody come from Jongdae's room. Intrigued, he moves over to the door and opens it slightly, and then freezes.  
  
Jongdae's singing in the shower. Junmyeon hadn't known Jongdae could sing. And it's not the uneven, disoriented singing of a casual music fan--it's strong and fierce and bold. Something like Taeyeon's singing. Something trained, something professional, something that sends goosebumps down Junmyeon's spine. The lyrics aren't understandable, swallowed in the sound of water hissing from the showerhead, but that's not important. The notes still resonate with Junmyeon, still touch something deep and dark and primitive inside of him, still captivate him.  
  
Junmyeon wonders what else Jongdae can do--what else Junmyeon doesn't know. _He's good at English_ , Junmyeon remembers unhelpfully.  
  
Junmyeon listens until the water stops running, and then sneaks back into the atrium, hiding himself in his own room after a moment of thought for good measure. Jongdae stops singing almost immediately, but the sound echoes in Junmyeon’s head and chest until he forgets to breathe, until he's reminded of Taeyeon's face shining onstage, until he wonders what Jongdae might look like in the shower, eyes closed, singing into the water.  
  
"Are you ready? We're going to be late!" Jongdae calls from behind the door.  
  
Junmyeon swallows and stares at the ornate outfit his servants prepared for him earlier this evening, fingers sliding up the embroidered _jeogori_ and down the thick _baji_. He wonders whether Jongdae will even notice that these duck designs once belonged to a crown prince three hundred years ago who couldn't impregnate his wife--though certainly not for a lack of trying.  
  
He laughs bitterly at the irony. "I'll be just a moment."  
  
  


  
  
  
They're brought to the exterior palace separately--each taking a ceremonial route plotted out by the court historians. Sunghwan delivers a long, awkward monologue on tricks and tips in the bedroom, and mentions a few choice items that the court ladies have stashed around the room in vases and empty jars. By the time Junmyeon arrives, he's sure his ears are red, and it's hard to take a seat and wait for the consort without fidgeting, wondering whether Jongdae's been taught the exact same seduction techniques.  
  
After a long wait, Jongdae arrives.  
  
The first thing Junmyeon notices is that Jongdae looks terrifyingly attractive. He's wearing the same silks as he had been at their wedding, the same thick layers falling to his fingertips, the same crown wrapped around his head with beads swinging around his forehead. His eyes are heavily made up, dark and rimmed with liner, and his lips have been glossed with something shiny.  
  
Junmyeon finds it hard to breathe. _They wouldn't call you a duckling if they could see you like this_ , he thinks, wondering how differently Jongdae must act in school for this side of him to be so entirely opaque to their classmates, for this inner steel not to be blindingly obvious to any casual observer. It's obvious to Junmyeon how stiff his shoulders are, how sharp the line of his jaw is, how tough his gaze is. It's obvious how difficult this is for Jongdae, and it's even more obvious that Jongdae will manage, regardless. True royalty, in a word. Exactly how Junmyeon had been taught.  
  
It takes Jongdae a moment to sit, head weighed down by the ornamental crown wound around his forehead, but when he does, every motion is sharp, forced, and Junmyeon wonders whether he's still too sick to be staying out all night.  
  
The guards lock them in.  
  
"I'm okay," Jongdae says before Junmyeon can ask, "but I'm glad you were wondering."  
  
This time, Junmyeon decides not to remind Jongdae that it isn’t his place to wonder or worry. That it’s a kindness, not an expectation he should have. Instead he says nothing and watches Jongdae toy with the crown knotted into his hair.  
  
"So what do we do here for the night? Sleep?"  
  
 _So he didn't get the same lecture I did_ , Junmyeon thinks. "Ideally."  
  
"And there's only one mattress. Of course."  
  
Junmyeon can't help but smile at the sarcasm. "Of course."  
  
"So one of us will have to sleep on the floor."  
  
"...Excuse me?" Not exactly the rejoinder Junmyeon had expected. "I'm the Crown Prince. I've never slept on a floor before in my life. I don't even think I've _thought_ about sleeping on a floor."  
  
"And I'm still a patient."  
  
An excellent point, Junmyeon thinks bitterly. He steals another look at Jongdae's profile, pale skin, thin arms, shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of his costume, and moves forward. "Let me help you out of this," he murmurs.  
  
"I know I'm attractive, but please don't jump me," Jongdae quips, letting Junmyeon tackle the extremely complex looking knots holding Jongdae's crown in place. Junmyeon bites his lip and doesn't laugh, doesn't look at the curve of Jongdae's neck, doesn't remember how Jongdae was singing so prettily earlier. That hadn’t been his intention. It was just kindness. It was like how Sunghwan used to help him undress after formal events, untying the knots in his _hanbok_ and brushing the beads of his crown away from his face.  
  
"What do you study in school?" he asks instead.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I have no idea what classes you take."  
  
Jongdae shrugs slightly, and Junmyeon loses his grip on one of the knots. "Didn't realize you cared."  
  
"I--" _don't,_ Junmyeon almost says reflexively. "Should. Know. For interviews."  
  
"I know you should. But you don't. Just like the sky isn't filled with flying unicorns." Jongdae shrugs. "I take classical music."  
  
"No art?"  
  
"Nope. Mainly music. I do performance and composition. I wanted to be a singer one day."  
  
Junmyeon finally manages to loosen the large knot at the back of the crown. "You know you can't perform as Prince," he says softly, moving on to the next knot, hand brushing against the hair along the nape of Jongdae's neck. "Your education will stop after high school."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And why do you always have ink all over your fingers?" The next knot comes undone all that more easily. One left. "Is it like the bruises from the other day? More bullying?"  
  
"Of course not. I lose all my pen caps and chew on the backs until they explode. Bad habit. Never got over it. Apparently I've moved onto calligraphy brushes in the palace since you people seem to have an aversion to stocking your closets with normal ballpoint pens."  
  
Junmyeon hooks his fingers between the strands of fabric and pulls. "You're a wreck," he whispers, laughing. Jongdae's hair is downy and soft under his fingers. "No wonder no one believes you're a prince with messy habits like that." You're too human for the _goong_. It's why we all like you. You're unfamiliar. It’s dangerous.  
  
Jongdae freezes at that. Junmyeon pulls the crown off of Jongdae's head in the meantime. "Would people have liked Taeyeon more? Would she have made a better consort?"  
  
The question surprises Junmyeon. He shrugs, not wanting to imagine how different this evening might be had Taeyeon been here to wrap her arms around Junmyeon's chest and card fingers through his hair. "Possibly? She has excellent stage presence."  
  
Jongdae shrinks away at that. And then he sighs and turns around stiffly, arms crossed. "You know, I have been trying so fucking hard for you--to make this work. I've learned a new language, I moved away from home, I've even studied all those horrible classics your teachers keep assigning."  
  
“It’s impressive,” Junmyeon says neutrally. “But it was necessary. You were untrained.” He watches the line of Jongdae’s shoulders and wonders whether he’d been that obviously uncomfortable as a child, consistently reminded to sublimate his feelings, to present a gloss of comfort and ease and _majesty_ whereas he went. And then Junmyeon realizes something, quiet and uncomfortable: Jongdae does have a home. Jongdae can leave. Junmyeon can let him leave. There’s no need for misery to have company.  
  
He clears his throat. “Stop, then.”  
  
“Stop?”  
  
"Stop then," and Junmyeon leans over and instinctively musses up Jongdae hair and watches Jongdae's eyes widen. "Stop trying. You don't belong here. You won't ever belong here. You don’t need to put up with your classmates bullying you, if you don’t want to." It's better that way. It would be better if neither of them had to belong--if they could both be different people, start their lives over again. If Junmyeon could throw Jongdae out of the palace and not have to watch another person become someone cruel and empty like himself.  
  
It might be lonely going back to his atrium every night, sure that it’ll be empty, knowing that the only person he has to engage him in conversation is Sunghwan, but better. Junmyeon knows how to deal with abject loneliness. Jongdae does not.  
  
Jongdae pulls away. "You're so awful," he says softly. "We're sitting here to--to fucking _consummate_ our wedding, and you're still so casually cruel to me. I didn't get bullied because I didn't look like a prince. I didn't get bullied because I'm your husband. I got bullied because I'm _gay_ , you asshole."  
  
"--because you're--"  
  
"I don't fit in because I'm _gay_. Because I thought I could like you. Because I did like you. Because you were pretty and strong and looked nice in photographs and gave great interviews and sounded like you cared about people who you spoke to--hundreds of them on your eighteenth birthday. _I was there_. I told you about my philosophical objections and you gave me a chart of the financial restructuring necessary if the monarchy was abolished and you--"  
  
"Jongdae."  
  
"--really you don't even care enough to figure out that I might be _pissed off_ knowing my husband tried to propose to someone else but got turned down--"  
  
" _Jongdae._ "  
  
"--knowing that I'm a last resort, that you can't even bother to come home and visit me in Seohandang when I'm studying books written thousands of years ago just to stop you from being so pissed off at me and then you tell me to _stop trying_?"  
  
Junmyeon clenches his fist. "It's a good thing you don't fit in. This place is--the palace is--," a deep breath, "I just meant that you're different."  
  
"Different? Well that's a pretty word. Sounds like 'duckling,'" Jongdae interrupts. "That's what they call me. Your friends were the ones to start the rumors: the ugly duckling that can never become a swan."  
  
"I didn't know," Junmyeon lies. He'd guessed as much.  
  
"You didn't care enough to know," Jongdae corrects. "I didn't want to be famous. I just didn't want my family to be poor. And I didn't hate you enough to refuse. Don't worry. Now--if I could do it again--I would. But I guess I'm trapped here, aren't I? Because you can't divorce me."  
  
Junmyeon breathes in deeply. "I can't divorce you--that's right. Not yet, at least. Maybe when I'm King and I have a little bit more power," Junmyeon pauses, frustrated. "You're that unhappy?"  
  
"No, I tend to faint just for fun. It's really a blast, you ought to try it sometime," Jongdae spits. "Yes. I'm unhappy. I like you, you idiot."  
  
"I didn't want you to be unhappy. I just wanted this to be uncomplicated." The excuse sounds pathetic, and Junmyeon regrets it immediately. Jongdae rolls his eyes. Junmyeon moves forward to do something--to explain, to describe the palace like he sees it, to tell Jongdae that he'd never wanted to suck anyone into this lonely, miserable place, that it was better if he never belonged, better if he stayed untouched, uncontaminated. That he hadn't realized how Jongdae had felt.  
  
And then Junmyeon's phone rings.  
  
"Get it," Jongdae says. "I'm sure it's someone a lot more important than me."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't move, so Jongdae lunges over him and grabs the phone from his pocket, sleeves dragging across the table of sweets and wines the servants have left out. Junmyeon stifles a smirk because the disregard for his clothes is so much like Jongdae that it's comforting to know not _everything_ has changed.  
  
Jongdae flips open the phone and hands it to Junmyeon. He freezes when he sees the caller ID, scrambling to end the call, Jongdae's hand stopping him from doing so.  
  
"Junmyeon," Taeyeon says. "I heard you and Jongdae were--it's all over the news, and--"  
  
"Taeyeon."  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
Jongdae's eyes are coldly furious. "Yeah," Junmyeon whispers, stomach twisting uncomfortably, "look I--"  
  
"You haven't done anything yet, right?"  
  
"No. But, Taeyeon--"  
  
"Good," Taeyeon breathes. "That's all I had to say. I was--I love you, Junmyeon. I really. Everything I said the other day--I still mean it. I always will."  
  
Junmyeon shivers. Jongdae grabs the phone, closes it, and then tosses it to the other side of the room. "I'm taking the mattress," he declares, gathering his clothes and shuffling over to the corner of the room. "You can fucking freeze."  
  
"I didn't ask her to call," Junmyeon says.  
  
"You know, I don't really care." A deep breath. "There's nothing wrong with the palace, Junmyeon. There's something wrong with _you_."  
  
"It doesn't matter whether or not I love her. This isn't about her anymore--this is about us. I married you." _And I'm sorry for that,_ Junmyeon finds he can't say. He swallows twice. "I married _you_."  
  
Jongdae doesn't reply. Junmyeon sighs, eyes trailing along the ornate figures along the molding, the thick, peeling wallpaper and the brutally cold floorboards. He wonders how miserably slowly this night will crawl by. It's been a long time since his life has been this complicated, this unscripted.  
  
"Jongdae," Junmyeon whispers, leaning up against a wall and folding his arms in an attempt not to look undignified, "if you can't stand it--if there comes a day, not today, but a day sometime in the future when you think you really can't stand it anymore, let me know. I'll end this." Junmyeon knows crown princes might not be allowed to divorce, and certainly kings cannot, but exiles might be.  
  
Fugitives definitely can. "Only when you're sure you can't take another day here. Only then."  
  
Jongdae doesn't respond. Junmyeon sighs and rubs his palms together to generate warmth. "Sleep well," he murmurs. He watches Jongdae shiver into his covers and wonders whether the consort had even heard him, or whether he's already fast asleep.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
The next morning finds Junmyeon stiff and uneasy, rubbing cold out of his neck and shoulders. They'd been let out of the ceremonial room early in the morning, and Jongdae hadn't said a single word to Junmyeon over breakfast. They were both showered and dressed in modern, fashionable three-piece suits for their visit to the National Gallery, and then shepherded over to greet the elders, Junmyeon's face schooled into disinterest. Jongdae had smiled three times and then shuttered his eyes completely.  
  
In the car, Jongdae turns to the window and hums under his breath. Junmyeon lets him have his silence. He cannot divorce Jongdae yet—Jongdae ought to be able to understand that. And there’s nothing else Junmyeon can do for him, not when Junmyeon feels equally as trapped, equally as lonely. _I am the seja,_ he thinks, _and yet I can’t do anything. I can’t even make the one person under my care happy._  
  
The gallery isn't emptied for their visit, so Junmyeon's bodyguards crowd around them, forming a wall between them and the rest of the crowds. Junmyeon slides a hand along Jongdae's back to keep him from bumping into anyone.  
  
"Don't touch me," Jongdae hisses.  
  
Someone snaps a photograph, so Junmyeon leans in, still grinning artificially, and whispers, "Don't be an idiot, everyone's watching. Do you want to repeat the fiasco from last night again?"  
  
Jongdae smiles sweetly and waves for a photographer. "Would Taeyeon be unhappy?"  
  
"My back is killing me. I don't really care what Taeyeon would say about that."  
  
Jongdae points out a photo on the other side of the room and drags their entourage over. Junmyeon rolls his eyes and wonders how long Jongdae will stay angry. He's irritated that he'd had to sleep in a corner--him, the _Crown Prince_ , relegated to the floor because of an idiotic argument that hadn't even entirely been Junmyeon's fault.  
  
Junmyeon takes a deep breath and swallows his frustration. _I'm sorry,_ he considers saying, winding a hand around Jongdae's neck and thumbing the protrusions of his spine. But the thought is uncomfortable. Junmyeon has never honestly apologized in his life.  
  
"Are the rumors true?" someone calls, hand around his mouth. "Is your marriage troubled?"  
  
A few guards move to shake down the interviewer, but Junmyeon holds up a hand to stop them. Years of training has taught him when to spot a good chance, and his mind whirls. "No," he answers, thinking about the King's dissatisfaction at Junmyeon's performance. "We're newlyweds. It's been hard to adjust."  
  
"So why has the Prince Consort been bullied in school?"  
  
Jongdae shivers; Junmyeon feels it, and brings the prince closer until their hips touch, until his hand is splayed across the whole of Jongdae's lower back. Junmyeon finds he hadn't accounted for the shiver that runs through his own body. "Roughhousing. It's a common school activity."  
  
"Didn't the Prince Consort fall sick recently?"  
  
Junmyeon shrugs purposefully. "I'm afraid there's been a bug going around. Even I haven't entirely managed to fight it. I just wear more makeup."  
  
The interviewer smiles. "Can you pose for the front page, then? Give us something to work with?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
 _Something to work with._ A thought comes to him: wild, crazy, uncertain, but also ideal. Junmyeon can’t do anything for Jongdae now, but Jongdae had said it himself: he didn’t dislike Junmyeon. Not initially. It had been Junmyeon’s emotional distance that had upset him, not the weight of the palace necessarily. Junmyeon hadn’t bothered explaining that the two were one and the same issue. There’s a way, he realizes, to mollify both Jongdae and the press. To solidify the story the PR department has been feeding the public. To fulfill his responsibilities as the _seja._  
  
So Junmyeon grabs at Jongdae's shoulder with his other hand, slides his arm up Jongdae's back and curls fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls Jongdae in for a kiss. Jongdae's so close that Junmyeon can smell the shampoo he used this morning, can feel his bangs brush against Junmyeon's skin, can share the tremors running down his body.  
  
Cameras flash. Jongdae gasps against his lips, and Junmyeon takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue licking into Jongdae's mouth, tasting warmth and orange candy he'd been sucking on in the car.  
  
"Thank you," someone says over a loud burst of applause. Junmyeon almost doesn't hear it, senses still overwhelmed by Jongdae's _nearness_ , by Jongdae's breath skittering across his face. "I guess you've dispelled all those rumors. You look like the perfect couple."  
  
Junmyeon feels Jongdae's eyelashes flutter against his skin as he starts to pull away. Junmyeon lets him go and opens his eyes, gaze locked on Jongdae's lips and wide eyes and pale face and wonders whether he could dig his hands into Jongdae's shirt and drag him back again for more. His chest hurts. "We are," he just about manages to reply. "We absolutely are."  
  
"You," Jongdae mouths. "I can't _believe_ you. I'm not, this isn't something you can just do for--"  
  
But Junmyeon can do anything for the press. He grabs at Jongdae's hand again and tightens his grip over it. "Believe it," he whispers, dragging Jongdae off to see a different painting. "They did. _You should_. I'm trying, okay?" And then, the most difficult lie of all, "I like you as well."  
  
His chest _hurts._  
  
For once, Jongdae doesn't ask what Junmyeon means, doesn't reply with a snarky comment, doesn't shrug angrily or pitifully. For once he keeps his mouth shut, a grin playing at the edges of his cheeks, flashing in his eyes.  
  
In the car ride back, Jongdae finally opens his mouth. "Did you plan for it to happen--like that?" he asks lightly. "All the cameras watching? That exact speech?"  
  
"No." And it's true. He hadn't. Not exactly.  
  
"Oh."  
  
Junmyeon closes his eyes and wishes he had the courage to slide his hand across the leather and hold Jongdae's again. It had been comfortable. And Jongdae might not be curvy or soft, but Junmyeon found himself liking that, liking the way Jongdae stood eye-to-eye with him when they'd kissed, liking the feeling of the lines of Jongdae's back and the jut of his hip against Junmyeon's thigh.  
  
He exhales and bites his lip, just so Jongdae doesn't entirely misunderstand. "You Zi said: 'In the actual practice of _li_ , flexibility is important. This is what the ancient kings did so well— both the greater and the lesser used flexibility. Yet there are occasions when this does not apply: If you understand flexibility and use it, but don't structure yourself with propriety, things won't go well.'"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"It's from the _Analects_ ," Junmyeon says. "Guidelines on how to take appropriate action in response to certain situations."  
  
Jongdae rolls his eyes and snorts. "You kissed me because _Confucius_ taught you to? That sounds like bullshit."  
  
"Suit yourself. Your fault for not studying the classics."  
  
"I studied the Book of Filial Piety! It took months! There wasn't anything about kissing in there!"  
  
"Then you should get started on the _Analects_. See what you learn."  
  
"I highly doubt there is anything about kissing in there, either."  
  
"Only one way to find out."  
  
"I hate you," Jongdae says, sniffing. After a moment he leans down across the divide and rests his head on Junmyeon's thigh. "Don't move. You're going to be my pillow for this evening so I can rest up for dinner. I didn't get a wink of sleep the other night. The room was too cold. And you talk in your sleep."  
  
Junmyeon tries not to let his surprise show. It's hard, very hard. "You'll be joining me at dinner?"  
  
"I plan to eat everything. You're not forgiven, by the way. I'm just standing up for myself as a member of the royal family, just like you wanted me to. I guess it's not entirely your fault that your ex is a jerk." And then, "I guess we can play at this for a little longer. You and me, I mean."  
  
"Taeyeon wasn't a jerk," Junmyeon mumbles, entranced by the warmth of Jongdae's head, the downy sheen of his hair, and the speed of his own heart rate. He should push Jongdae away--he knows he should. Jongdae is too easily mollified, too convinced that Junmyeon could actually love someone else. He’d bought it—the entire charade.  
  
Junmyeon wonders why the tightness in his chest feels so much like claustrophobia.  
  
"Jerk," Jongdae reaffirms carefully.  
  
Junmyeon decides not to argue.

  
  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Jongdae skips school again that day--forced back into bed by the nursing staff affronted that he'd spent a night on a thin mattress, curled up underneath a single blanket instead of in a proper bed. Junmyeon ignores the rumors that have already spread like wildfire, headphones tight over his ears, avoiding the photos of The Kiss already plastered over everyone's tablets and phone screens. By the end of afternoon classes he's so frustrated and tightly wound that he finds himself agreeing when Baekhyun suggests they all go riding to blow off some steam.  
  
Junmyeon hasn't been on horseback since before the wedding--and it shows. His gait is unsteady, and his posture is unyielding. Baekhyun overtakes him around the track before Junmyeon feels himself reclaim his natural grace, leaning forward slightly and clenching against the saddle with his knees. The wind whistles in his ears and he hisses at Machine to gallop even faster, leaping over the low obstacles strewn around the course, body shifting along the horse's natural diagonals. Their muscles seem to meld together, one figure cutting through the slight wind together, world blurring as they pick up speed. Junmyeon feels every breath Machine takes acutely, and times his own heartbeat to match. He’d missed riding.  
  
Junmyeon wins every lap after that. Eventually the other boys give up and canter about gently, keeping Taeyeon company, jockeying around the fence she's leaning over, cheering them all on. Junmyeon doesn't watch her hair swing behind her, doesn't watch her lips shine stickily with gloss. He swallows twice and tries to remember Jongdae's mouth and the atrium between their rooms, so distracted that he almost doesn't notice Baekhyun ride up to him.  
  
"Hey. You coming in for tea? We're just about finished here, I think. The horses look exhausted."  
  
"Can't." Junmyeon lifts a leg over the saddle and hops down, reins in his hands. "I'm busy tonight." The elders of the royal family will want to speak to him to review the day’s public relations activities.  
  
"With the duckling?" Baekhyun looks like he's about to say something else, but shuts his mouth, nose wrinkled. "Taeyeon's upset."  
  
"That really isn't my problem." The words come out cold. "If you're interested, you can have her." As Junmyeon turns, he feels a hand brush against his shirt-sleeve.  
  
"Sorry," Baekhyun says automatically. "Just--she loves you. And she's been working really hard for her concert. Can't you cut her some slack? We've been friends for years. And I've never done--I've never made a move. I've always just watched you two. But you're being cruel to her now."  
  
"I'm _married._ "  
  
"You're not even gay. We all know that it's a political stunt. We're here for you, and we'll support the two of you. You can be honest with us, Junmyeon. You always have been."  
  
Junmyeon bristles, turning to stare at Baekhyun's expensive riding outfit, leather jacket slick against his chest, pants tight in the knees. "Honest," he says slowly, dragging out the word, watching Baekhyun's face screw up in disconcertment. It's a bad habit. Junmyeon wonders if Baekhyun knows about it. "Have I?"  
  
"You're our friend. We grew up together."  
  
Junmyeon thinks about the years he spent sitting in a room with his hands behind his back learning to recite the thousands of rules of palace etiquette. He remembers watching his tutors get whipped for his failings, and his minders, expelled, for their rare indulgence of his childish playfulness. Junmyeon remembers turning thirteen and being told that he would be King one day--that he would rule an entire country. Junmyeon remembers turning fifteen and realizing that ruling a country with an existing parliament is just another way of saying that Junmyeon was destined to live out the rest of his life as a cosseted puppet. A National Treasure. A draw for tourists worldwide.  
  
"No," he says, dismounting, handing Baekhyun the reins to his horse. "We didn't."  
  
  
  
  
  
The King and Queen summon Junmyeon to their chambers that evening. Sunghwan bows low when he delivers the message to Junmyeon after dinner, and Junmyeon shoots a look across the atrium to where Jongdae's disappeared into his room, exhausted from the day. "I'll be there," Junmyeon tells him, brushing the warmth of Jongdae's lips off of his mouth. "Let me change."  
  
"You did a good job," the Queen tells him, hands clasped over a cup of tea. "A bit forthright, but the public reaction was quite positive. We were worried about your relationship with the Consort initially, but this was excellent. You followed the script."  
  
Junmyeon inclines his head politely, suddenly glad that Jongdae hadn't been asked to accompany him. He picks at the ends of the deep blue suit he'd chosen for the evening's meeting, a talisman of strength, and feels his stomach curdle unpleasantly. "The script. Right." The fact that he’d enjoyed it had been entirely irrelevant.  
  
The room is heavy and dark, despite the handful of candles and decorated lamps littering the room. The King sighs back into his chair, and Junmyeon watches wrinkles form around his temples and cheeks, deep grooves in the skin of his face, and realizes, for the very first time, that his father is getting old. Junmyeon wishes he dared to ask if the King had ever loved anyone before, and let them go. Whether he loved the Queen. Junmyeon supposes it was different, given that his mother had been brought up in an aristocratic home and had known, since she was twelve, that was betrothed.  
  
"You're dismissed," the King murmurs gently, crown heavy on his head. "Keep up the excellent work. You'll likely have cameras trailing after you for a good month or so. Entertain them."  
  
Junmyeon doesn't say _I was born to entertain them_. He definitely doesn't say, _Isn't that all I ever do_. Doesn't even consider it. He leaves it at: "Thank you, _aba-mama_ ," and walks out.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
School gets easier. Junmyeon stops ignoring Jongdae when they pass by each other, and sometimes walks over to the music department just to keep up appearances. Taeyeon texts him three times, and Junmyeon archives the messages without reading them, leaning against the windowed doors of Jongdae's classroom and trying for a smile when he sees Jongdae raise his hand and get every question in every class right. He watches Jongdae bite into the tops of his pens, drop them on the floor, and then, heedless of the numerous bacteria coating the tip, plop it back between his lips at the earliest convenience.  
  
In the afternoons, they leave together, and Jongdae chatters away in the back of their car, poking at his phone and sending Junmyeon photos of things he'd seen or read that day. At the palace they splinter off--Junmyeon has fencing lessons, and Jongdae goes back to study at Seohandang Hall. And in the evenings they meet for dinner and exchange small-talk over bowls of rice and soup. It's not comfortable--Junmyeon stills feels himself anticipating Jongdae, looking for the places in the palace that he's begun to fill, skin prickling when he notices how much of his life has expanded to suit another person's existence--but it's easier, less forced, and almost genuine.  
  
Almost terrifyingly genuine.  
  
And yet there’s always a flimsy reminder, when they’re sitting together, Jongdae talking, Junmyeon pretending to listen, that this is all a farce. That Jongdae knows very little about Junmyeon himself. That Junmyeon is as lonely as he ever was, he’s just lonely with company, now.  
  
The media is relentless: they're photographed holding hands, dancing, eating, and talking. Junmyeon learns to laugh at Jongdae's teasing, and cover for Jongdae's social gaffes instead of pinching his upper arm when he misbehaves at receptions. In the meantime, Jongdae becomes famous for his impressions of the court ladies and their attempts to teach him palace etiquette. Sunghwan tells him about Jongdae's reputation among the staff. Junmyeon tries not to listen, mainly because even the mention of Jongdae's name reminds him of those fingers on his arm and a mouth against his lips.  
  
Jongdae starts smiling again, gets caught running through the halls, hoarding snacks, and trying to smuggle a bicycle onto palace grounds. Junmyeon watches his antics through the windows in his study, velvet-covered reports left behind on his desk, laughing as Jongdae smashes into pots and vases that are probably hundreds of years old, eyes bright, hair tousled in the wind. He watches a small army of palace maids chase after Jongdae, and finds himself snickering as Sunghwan emerges from a balcony and nearly kills himself trying to reach the consort in order to reason with him.  
  
Junmyeon could have warned him not to bother. He quickly strides out of his study, around a corner and down a hall to the atrium between his and Jongdae's rooms, and opens the glass balcony doors just in time to see Jongdae slam down his brakes in front of a panting Sunghwan, clipboard clutched to his chest.  
  
"It's unbefitting of someone of your status to be riding a bicycle inside of the palace. Please, Your Highness, get down from there."  
  
Jongdae accedes to the request hesitantly, fingers still tight around the handlebars. Junmyeon frowns. He likes watching Jongdae smile--likes seeing what he might once have been had he never been trapped inside of the _goong_. Junmyeon steps forward, hands clasped behind his back, and clears his throat. "Wouldn't it be alright if, ah, he rode it for exercise?"  
  
Jongdae whirls around, "Junmyeon?"  
  
Junmyeon coughs. Jongdae grins and catches on quickly, turning back to Sunghwan, still panting, hands on his knees, a pained expression on his face. "Exactly. I need exercise to maintain my figure. I'll ride it only for exercise, I promise."  
  
"There is an exercise room in the palace. We've fitted it with the latest equipment."  
  
"That's really not good enough," Junmyeon interrupts. "A moving bicycle provides a different kind of workout. It's good for--"  
  
"--balance." Jongdae smiles. "Very good for balance. Exercising the lower groin muscles, you know. Important in improving marital relations."  
  
"Oh my god," an attendant whispers. Sunghwan pales and stops breathing, Junmyeon makes a note to kill Jongdae at the earliest possible convenience, and Jongdae rides off, laughter trailing behind him. And when he's done, when he's parked the bike in a corner and dashes back to the atrium, suit pants strained with green and dress shirt rolled up far past his elbows, Junmyeon's so entranced by his smile and the whirlwind of fresh air flooding the palace that he forgets to be angry.  
  
"You look ridiculous," he just says, beckoning Jongdae forward, helping him unfold his sleeves when Jongdae plops down next to him.  
  
"Don't care. No cameras here."  
  
"You look ridiculous on camera too, though." Junmyeon wonders whether Jongdae's been monitoring the thousands of favorable articles flooding the internet, whether he's seen the pictures of their lips locked in the National Galley, standing too close to one another in school, Jongdae leaning up against Junmyeon's shoulder in their shared car.  
  
"Thank you. About the bike. I appreciate it--"  
  
Junmyeon breathes in soap and sweat and wonders, for a moment, how much of this is real.  
  
"-- _jeoha_."  
  
Junmyeon's fingers stiffen over the buttons on Jongdae's shirt. He lets go, grabbing his economics text to cover his embarrassment. His heart hammers against his chest and it's hard to breathe. " _Jeoha_?"  
  
Jongdae finishes righting his shirt. "I think I like calling you that. _Jeoha_."  
  
It's the first time his address has ever felt intimate. Junmyeon shivers in the warmth of the sunlight and finds that his throat hurts. "Really? Everyone else in the country calls me that. I thought you'd be a bit more adventurous."  
  
"I've called you _Your Royal Arseness_ enough times that the novelty's worn off." Junmyeon turns a page in his book just to keep up appearances, finding that the words and graphs of stock ownership plans begin to blur into one another, but Jongdae continues, nonplussed: "In all seriousness, I'm being respectful."  
  
"To me?" The idea is absurd. Jongdae couldn't define _respect_ on an exam even if he tried.  
  
"Mmm, to you. You deserve that, at least. After these past two weeks."  
  
"I get enough respect," Junmyeon says, meaning _I don't need that from you._ "I'm the Crown Prince. I'm going to be King."  
  
Jongdae slips closer to Junmyeon, sliding his head onto Junmyeon's lap and wriggling into the cushions, feet propped up on the arm. "I know, but that isn't what I meant. It's hard--all the cameras. I didn't realize how hard it was before. I didn't realize how terrifying it was to walk around knowing that everyone was waiting for you to fuck it all up. I'm sorry for not taking it seriously."  
  
Jongdae's a heavy, unexpected weight. Junmyeon isn't sure whether to push him away or tangle fingers in his downy hair, stroke at his temples, bathe in the heat and comfort of Jongdae's body. Here there are no cameras. And if anyone asks, this is his royal consort. Jongdae is _his_. He can touch him if he wants to. He can--  
  
But no cameras means no justification. And as nice as the warmth of another person’s body against his is, it wouldn’t be fair. Not to Jongdae.  
  
Junmyeon takes three deep breaths and pulls himself together, tugging at the composure always lurking right underneath his skin, stifling that particularly problematic line of thought. "What are you doing? You know you have to wear shoes when you walk around. And you aren't supposed to put your feet on the chairs. They're historical artifacts."  
  
Jongdae is far too close. "Are you going to tell?"  
  
"Don't be an idiot."  
  
He can see Jongdae smirk. "Sorry, it's a struggle. Let's not fight. Let's just relax and pretend we're someplace else for a little while, just you and me."  
  
 _It's been a tiring few weeks,_ he doesn't say. He doesn't need to. Junmyeon's breath catches in his throat and he carefully moves to rest his fingers right about the halo of frizz surrounding Jongdae's head. "We should pretend we're different people, then,” he whispers honestly. “Happier people."  
  
"I'm pretty happy right now," Jongdae murmurs. "Aren't you?"  
  
Junmyeon doesn't know how to reply. Jongdae doesn't seem to expect one, though, breathing in deeply, body slinking into sleep. Junmyeon is awed by how often Jongdae seems to need to rest--exhausted from his drawn-out illness, worn down by the constant need to look happy and healthy for the paparazzi stationed outside their doors. And even so--even now--he manages to bleed warmth into Junmyeon's body.  
  
"S'fun," Jongdae just about whispers, voice so soft Junmyeon almost misses it. "Having Prince Junmyeon to myself for a bit."  
  
The words are heavy. Almost far too heavy a burden.  
  
  
  
  
  
Junmyeon almost doesn't wake Jongdae up for the nightly family film. He looks beautiful, asleep, lashes dark against his skin, collar rumpled, every line of his face sharply defined. He looks perfect and unencumbered and Junmyeon is loath to destroy that.  
  
But duty comes first; duty always does. And so, with a hand, he shakes Jongdae back into consciousness.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
In February, about a month after their _hapbang_ , the Royal Family travels to Busan for a day to celebrate the new year. A whole cabin on the KTX is reserved for them, so they spread out--the Queen Mother and her staff up front, the King and Queen reposing towards the middle of the car, and Jongdae snuggling against Junmyeon in the back. Junmyeon pokes at Jongdae's side irritably--it's one thing to indulge in covert touches around their rooms and the atrium, but he's sure the Queen wouldn't approve of such flagrant displays of affection in public.  
  
Or maybe she would, pleased that Jongdae's embracing the identity they've devised for him so quickly and easily after all the initial worry. Regardless, eventually Jongdae rolls his eyes and moves to lean against the window, fingernail tapping at the side of the train, too tired to eat or read or sleep (Junmyeon's asked--he supposes concerned husbands are supposed to ask). He spends the entire trip like that, flashes of excitement dulled when he turns to kick Junmyeon in the shins and tell him about a particularly pretty view, finding Junmyeon's eyes glued firmly to Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations._  
  
"I thought you'd want to take pictures," Jongdae mutters.  
  
Junmyeon blinks and closes his book softly. He wasn't really reading it anyway, he thinks wistfully, handing it to Sunghwan two rows over. "I don't really take pictures of scenery," he admits, staring at the gold in Jongdae's hair. "I take pictures of other things."  
  
"Very specific," Jongdae says. "Thanks for the explanation."  
  
Junmyeon suppresses a smile. Jongdae's sarcasm has grown on him. A lot of Jongdae’ idiosyncrasies have grown on him, sneaking up and surprising him with flashes of honest _happiness_ when he isn’t paying attention. They’re dangerous, in a sense, Junmyeon knows—they’re reminders of how nice it is not to be entirely isolated from his peers. But it’s happiness tempered with the reminder that Junmyeon is just waiting for the moment when he can let Jongdae go. When all of this can be brought to an end. When Jongdae realizes that Junmyeon has never loved him, but has been using his happiness to assuage the worries of their constituents.  
  
Junmyeon feels a wave of chilling isolation sweep through him. "Don't be nosy."  
  
"Can't I be nosy? I don't know anything about you. Anything more than anyone else knows," he corrects hastily, leaning back against Junmyeon's shoulder. Jongdae's propensity towards physicality is still surprising, still perplexing, but Junmyeon's learned to enjoy it.  
  
"I take pictures of ordinary things. Common things."  
  
Jongdae doesn't move. "Why?"  
  
Taeyeon, Junmyeon remembers, had asked a similar question. But Junmyeon thinks Jongdae would understand, so he tries for the truth. "Because those pictures are much more honest. They're more representative of the world." The words aren't easy to say. He grits his teeth. "Landscapes are pretty, but they don't really tell you anything about the place."  
  
Jongdae doesn't reply right away. When he does, his voice is serious, measured. "That sounds like crap, honestly."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"It's all about perspective. To say that the only way to properly appreciate the world is through the small, dirty things--well. That's sort of silly. Everything is equal behind the lens of a camera. Everything becomes pixels on a screen, eventually. Everything can look pretty."  
  
"I don't work with digital cameras," Junmyeon says a bit pedantically.  
  
"Of course you don't. But you know what I mean. When you hang pictures next to each other, they're all just as distant and foreign. They're all exactly the same. It doesn't matter whether it's a picture of a sunset or a piece of gum. The pictures can be equally as beautiful, so the viewer might not be able to tell you which one is prettier in the real world."  
  
"Fancy rhetoric," Junmyeon murmurs. It's a clever answer. It's not one Junmyeon thinks he agrees with, but it's nice to hear someone disagree with him so casually. "Your own?"  
  
"Not all," Jongdae admits. "I read a lot."  
  
"So do I."  
  
"I noticed. All economics, recently."  
  
"Someone has to," he says, remembering the crushing defeat he feels at reviewing the quarterly fiscal reports, monitoring the unemployment rate and related crime statistics. "It's a disaster."  
  
"You'll fix it."  
  
"I can't fix anything. I'm powerless."  
  
Jongdae shrugs. "I don't think you are. You're a really good role model for the rest of the country. Your article last year about buying and using only domestic products was inspiring. Everyone loved the anecdote about economics and recovery being more than just a mathematical scheme--about it being a community coming together and giving up a little so the country has more to work with. It's what people like most about you. You're approachable. And you care."  
  
"I have to. That's what Crown Princes are supposed to do."  
  
"Just because the constitutional monarchy is a flawed concept doesn't mean you can't make the best of it, especially in hard times. It's a good thing you're the Crown Prince. You'll be a good King: critical and unyielding." Jongdae's thigh, Junmyeon realizes, is all too close to his own. He swallows and does not tell Jongdae that it is very unlikely he will ever be king.  
  
"Yeah, well."  
  
The train begins to slow. Sunghwan clears his throat, and Jongdae shifts off away from Junmyeon's side. "I'm going to use the bathroom," he says quickly, "wait for me?"  
  
Junmyeon nods, then turns to Sunghwan and takes back his book. "Do you know what he was quoting from? Earlier, I mean. About photographs."  
  
"Probably Susan Sontag, Your Highness."  
  
A name he's not unfamiliar with. "I'd like copies of all her work," he instructs. Sunghwan bows, and then pauses, shoulders stiff. Junmyeon feels his stomach lurch. _Bad news_ , he thinks. "Is there something else?"  
  
"Your Highness, your friends are on this train."  
  
"My--"  
  
"The Prime Minister's son, the son of LG Corporation's COO, the--"  
  
 _Yifan, Yixing, and probably Baekhyun and Zitao. Which means Taeyeon is here._ Junmyeon grits his teeth. The last thing he needs is another scandal. "How did you find out?"  
  
"They sent up a message earlier with one of the train staff. I thought it would be better if you found out before the Consort did."  
  
There's an element of judgment in what Sunghwan's saying. Junmyeon feels himself tense, immediately prickling. "It's none of Jongdae's business what I do with my friends. I’m the Prince Consort. I make my own decisions."  
  
"I know," Sunghwan replies. He doesn't say _you've been working so hard at this, though,_ but he doesn't have to, Junmyeon can tell that the charade has exhausted Sunghwan as well, grey hairs poking out of his otherwise neatly combed coiffure. "The Consort looks like he's getting feverish again."  
  
"I know." Junmyeon had felt it. Jongdae still isn’t eating properly and still hasn’t been sleeping well. For a moment, Junmyeon wonders whether Jongdae’s happiness is also a carefully disguised front. Whether he’s still massively uncomfortable inside of the _goong_ \--desperate and lonely and equally as unwilling to show Junmyeon how little has changed in the past month. "Thank you."  
  
Another bow. "Your Highness."  
  
The words sound wrong in this context--too formal, too distant for the favor Sunghwan's trying to do. Junmyeon reaches out a hand and lightly brushes against Sunghwan's shoulders, fingertips skidding along the fabric of his suit. "Don't," he whispers, mindful of the Queen's entourage hanging around, waiting for Junmyeon and the consort to join them. "Thank you, Sunghwan. I appreciate that."  
  
Sunghwan's cheek twitches, and Junmyeon wonders if that's his attempt at quelling a smile. He raises his head properly and looks Junmyeon in the eye. "You've grown up," he says simply, quickly, informally. "I want you to be careful."  
  
There's a line, Junmyeon knows, and Sunghwan has just probably crossed it. It's immensely comforting. "I know."  
  
The washroom door opens, and Junmyeon watches Jongdae hastily wipe his hands on his nine hundred thousand _won_ trousers. Junmyeon tries not to roll his eyes, and Sunghwan steps away quickly, maintaining the appropriate distance between royalty and commoners. Junmyeon feels the moment of camaraderie fade, numbness spreading back into his fingers. Already, he misses the feel of linen underneath his hands.  
  
He wonders if Sunghwan ever hugged him when he was a child. If he'd ever do it again.  
  
Jongdae sidles up to Junmyeon easily, and Junmyeon feels his breath hitch and hand slide around Jongdae's waist and wonders for one dizzying moment whether Sunghwan's wrong, whether the real Kim Junmyeon is still five years old, trapped inside the Crown Prince of Korea that the media have crafted over the years into such a beloved national icon.  
  
"Let's go," Jongdae says simply, walking ahead and sidling past the two of them.  
  
It looks so easy when Jongdae heads off, bowing gracefully to the Queen one moment and then almost tripping over his shoelaces the next, popping out of the train with a smile on his face and a hand in the air. Junmyeon finds himself entranced, remembering their wedding parade, Jongdae clinging to the sides of their carriage, looking firmly ahead, clothing entirely rumpled.  
  
His clothing is still rumpled, but there's an air of kingliness about Jongdae that Junmyeon had only seen before in brief flashes—at Seohandang, at their wedding, during the _hapbang_. It’s a reminder.  
  
Sunghwan bows. "They're waiting for you, Your Highness."  
  
There are a lot of people waiting for him. He takes a deep breath and remembers what he is: The Crown Prince of Korea. A national icon. A role model.  
  
Junmyeon’s chest seizes with an unexplained flash of terror and remembers the wrinkles on his father’s face.  
  
Sunghwan clears his throat.  
  
"I'm going," Junmyeon says quickly. "Tell my friends I'll see them later tonight."  
  
" _Seja,_ " Sunghwan warns.  
  
A King doesn't have friends, Junmyeon knows. But once upon a time, the Crown Prince did.  
  
And Junmyeon, one day, might.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
They attend two book signings and one fundraiser, and Junmyeon kisses Jongdae’s hand twice when he knows cameras are trained on them, lips barely grazing Jongdae's knuckles. Jongdae thanks the photographers for their time and jokes that in future, he doesn't mind rumors of their marital discord spreading if it means Junmyeon feels more comfortable touching him in public. Junmyeon tries to ignore the Queen's pointed distaste at Jongdae's carelessness, and shuts Jongdae up by skittering a hand across his lap.  
  
Jongdae, horrified, excuses himself in search of another bathroom. It takes Junmyeon a while to realize why, but when he thinks about it, hand oh-so-close to Jongdae's groin, fingers light and steady on his inner thigh, he flushes, drinks two large glasses of water, and misses a question from the press.  
  
Someone laughs. The Queen does not.  
  
"You're losing it," she says stiffly between meetings, after the last well-wisher thanking Junmyeon for all of his work promoting domestically grown produce. "It was a good idea the first time. Now it's careless. The Crown Prince shouldn't be so loose in public."  
  
Junmyeon isn't sure how to respond. He nods stiffly, eyes trained on Jongdae emerging from the bathroom, cheeks red and hands shaking. Junmyeon thinks he’s definitely losing it. "Yes, Your Majesty."  
  
"You'll instruct him?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
The Queen turns and walks away, _hanbok_ rustling through the hotel hallway where they're taking their afternoon break from schedules. Jongdae shoves his hands in his pockets and sidles up to Junmyeon. "That sounded serious. Instruct me on what?"  
  
Junmyeon doesn't want to remind Jongdae that this is, and always has been an illusion of a relationship cultivated for the press. Jongdae’s face is still red and Junmyeon can’t think of anything beyond the fact that he did that to Jongdae, that he’s the reason Jongdae’s come undone. "It doesn't matter."  
  
"It sounds like it does."  
  
Junmyeon really doesn't want to have this discussion. He grabs Jongdae's shoulder instead and kisses him. Jongdae's lips are wet and pliant and he steps forward into the kiss, hands moving to tangle in Junmyeon's hair. And then Jongdae opens his mouth and Junmyeon finds himself slipping his tongue against Jongdae's and Jongdae, frighteningly, _moans_ against him, groin bumping up against Junmyeon's--  
  
Sunghwan clears his throat, and Junmyeon jumps backwards. "The Queen is waiting for you both," Sunghwan whispers, throat scratchy. "Er."  
  
"Right." Junmyeon says. He marvels at Jongdae's eyes, glassy and wide. "We'll be there."  
  
"I recommend sooner rather than later, before Her Majesty comes back."  
  
"Right."  
  
Sunghwan turns away, flush creeping up his cheeks, and Junmyeon tugs at his tie to compose himself. "You might want to keep your lips pressed together," he advises Jongdae, horrified by how _red_ his mouth is.  
  
Jongdae snickers. "Same with you. Fuck."  
  
 _At least there'll be cameras to catch all of this._ Junmyeon tries to shrug nonchalantly.  
  
Jongdae presses himself against Junmyeon's front again. "We'll continue this later?" His voice is breathy and Junmyeon resists the impulse to kiss the words away from him. "After people are done singing your praises."  
  
"No one's singing anything."  
  
"Don’t be so literal." Jongdae grabs Junmyeon's hand. "I told you. People love you."  
  
There's a charity bazaar later. And then a romp around a fishing village and Junmyeon will probably be able to watch Jongdae try and find a way to look solemn and princely in wellies. "Whatever," he says, stomach fluttering. "Later."  
  
  
  
  
  
But later finds Junmyeon sneaking out of their hotel, donning a cap and dark jeans he's had Sunghwan stealthily prepare. The boys have booked a room in a local club, dark and loud, and Junmyeon makes sure to keep his face covered when he walks in through the back. He hadn't expected to leave so quickly after the afternoon schedule, but Jongdae had taken a nap, drained from the day, and Junmyeon hadn't wanted to risk not managing to conjure a better cover for his escape.  
  
"You made it," Yixing says, glass raised in a mockery of a toast. "We were worried."  
  
Baekhyun moves over, patting an empty seat. "Want anything? We can order a new round for you."  
  
"I shouldn't," but Junmyeon could use a drink. He's spent. The afternoon had been filled with posing for cameras and answering questions about his personal life while trying to remember that kissing Jongdae can be fun and totally emotionally uninvolving. One hurdle after another.  
  
"That's a yes then. I'll go get a tray," and Baekhyun walks out, hand stuck in his tight jeans, hair slicked away from his face. When the door closes, Junmyeon leans back into the leather couches and sighs.  
  
"He's angry with you," Yifan says uncharacteristically, tilting his glass of scotch. "Taeyeon's here."  
  
Another problem. He’s expected this one, but it’s still horrifying to hear that his friends had thought it appropriate to stage an intervention. For him. For the _Crown Prince._ " _Excuse me?_ "  
  
"She's here. We came with her. We wanted to talk to you about all of," and Yifan waves a hand around, "this."  
  
"You're uncharacteristically chatty,” Junmyeon snaps.  
  
"Someone has to be," Yixing says, grabbing the bottle of Macallan and pouring Junmyeon a shot. "Baekhyun's upset."  
  
"That's really not my problem." Junmyeon accepts the drink, though, and knocks it back. It burns his throat and he sets the glass down sharply, indicating that he'd like another. Yixing doesn't bat an eyelash, just obliges stoically.  
  
"Yeah, well." There's nothing else to say. Junmyeon doesn't have to justify his relationship to them--doesn't have to explain that Jongdae is important to the monarchy. A thirteen percent increase in their approval ratings is a major victory.  
  
He knocks back the second drink just as Baekhyun returns with colored glasses and two bottles of vodka. "Cheers," Baekhyun says cheekily, setting the tray down.  
  
Zitao rolls his eyes and says something that sounds suspiciously like, _You don't need to encourage him,_ but Junmyeon chooses to ignore it in favor of grabbing something bright green with a lime umbrella and downing it.  
  
"Is he okay?" Baekhyun jabs a finger at Junmyeon, and then jumps over Yixing's knees and settles against Zitao's shoulder. "Bit enthusiastic, aren't you?"  
  
Junmyeon doesn't feel okay. "Shove off," he mumbles, grabbing the entire bottle of vanilla vodka and decanting a huge glass into his now-empty whiskey. The alcohol, he thinks, is already helping, numbing him to the compression in his chest that’s been all but constant these last few days. "I should be asking you why you thought you should bring _her_ here. After all this--after you know how important it is that I'm not seen with her."  
  
"He's talking about Taeyeon," Yixing stage-whispers.  
  
"You won't be seen." Baekhyun leans forward and steeples his fingers. "That's why we picked this club. It's dark.'  
  
"You're a jerk," Junmyeon decides. The vodka in his glass seems to be gone already. Huh.  
  
Baekhyun curses and refutes the accusation, only Junmyeon's not listening, grabbing drink after drink, relaxing in the roar of blood in his ears and the slow blur of sensation creeping down his arms. Baekhyun is shouting about something, Zitao's got his arm linked around Baekhyun's elbow, and Junmyeon finds that he doesn't care. Junmyeon feels the bass line of whatever crappy pop music they're playing reverberate in his bones. He takes another drink. And then another, and then he loses count.  
  
"I can't see her," he hears himself say later. "Jongdae gets upset by it." _Which means I get into trouble._  
  
"What does _Jongdae_ think of our riding club, then?" Baekhyun rolls his eyes. "Maybe he thinks he'll be the next inducted member or something."  
  
"The duckling couldn't join our club even if--" and Yixing breaks off, laughing at his own joke a bit too violently. "Wait, wait. I have a good one: how do you go from being a commoner to being an aristocrat?"  
  
Zitao shrugs and Yifan strokes at Baekhyun's hair. Yixing smirks. "Reincarnation."  
  
Junmyeon feels his body tense. He doesn't let it show, though, relaxing into the heavy leather couch, admiring a bottle of gin with one hand. It's heavy; everything feels heavy these days.  
  
 _The Master said: “If the noble man is not ‘heavy,’ then he will not inspire awe in others. If he is not learned, then he will not be on firm ground. He takes loyalty and good faith to be of primary importance, and has no friends who are not of equal moral caliber. When he makes a mistake, he doesn't hesitate to correct it.”_ The _Analects._ Junmyeon wonders whether Jongdae's read this section yet. Junmyeon wonders what he thinks about it. Whether he realizes that maybe Confucius was the reason Junmyeon had kissed Jongdae the first time around. And that Confucius might be the reason he destroys his very last friendships.  
  
Junmyeon’s chest tighten once again as the last illusions of his life of freedom from the _goong_ , from the title of Crown Prince fade away. He’s no longer sitting in a room with four friends. He’s sitting in a room with four subjects. He should have been more careful.  
  
"You know how you go from being an aristocrat to becoming royalty?" Junmyeon turns the bottle over and closes his eyes, knowing his friends are all watching him, watching the expensive jacket he's wearing with the royal seal embroidered around the sleeve. He wonders if Yixing is still smiling, if Baekhyun is still biting back a laugh. " _Reincarnation_."  
  
The silence that meets his rebuke is another reminder of how far they've come, and how different they will always be. It's easy to be a plutocrat's son and play at exclusivity. It's harder when that distance is ingrained in every fiber of his body, when the appropriate distance between speaker and subject is half a room's length, when the closest he gets to his parents is a handshake in a photo op. It's a world his friends will never enter and will never be able to understand. There's only one person in Junmyeon's life who has crossed into that world. There is only one person who can share the burden of distance that Junmyeon has to shoulder.  
  
 _It's very rare that kings have friends_ , Junmyeon's father had said. But all kings get married.  
  
Junmyeon's ears burn when he gets up out of his chair, suddenly feeling intensely sober. "He's waiting for me," Junmyeon says, just to be clear. "My consort."  
  
  
  
  
  
As the door shuts behind him, closing on four stunned faces, Junmyeon realizes that the evening has all but reminded Junmyeon that however close he feels, however fondly he thinks of the other _chaebol_ boys, they'll never be his friends, not really, not when they can't understand the pressure he's constantly under to perform. He can't make exceptions--not with them. Not with anyone.  
  
Despite the rush of clarity he'd felt, his first step into the hall turns into an stumble into someone else's hands. He hisses at the offender, something that sounds like a cross between _excuse me_ and _who the hell do you think you are?_ and ends the attempted insult in a swallow when he looks up just slightly and sees that it's _her_.  
  
In the low lights of the club, Taeyeon's more beautiful than ever. Junmyeon finds his hands reaching up towards her hair, so similar in color and consistency to Jongdae's but so much longer, brushing against the soft swell of her breasts.  
  
Junmyeon feels sick. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Baekhyun brought me. He knew we needed to talk."  
  
"Taeyeon," Junmyeon whispers, "we're done talking."  
  
"I'm not done."  
  
And that isn't the point at all. Junmyeon trips over his feet and Taeyeon grabs at his arm, guiding him towards a couch, tugging at his cap so it covers his eyes again. She leans in to whisper into his ear and her chin still fits perfectly in the curve in his shoulder and Junmyeon realizes, suddenly, that his stomach is cold. He doesn't want to kiss her. There's nothing between them any longer. It's really, really over.  
  
"I have to go," he says. "I'm drunk. And I'm married."  
  
"Let's talk, Junmyeon."  
  
"There's nothing to talk about."  
  
"I just wanted to explain--"  
  
"I'm _married_ ," and the word comes out slurred.  
  
"To Jongdae. As a publicity stunt."  
  
Junmyeon's way too drunk to be having this conversation with her. "Did I ever say that?"  
  
"Everyone said it. You didn't have to. And I presumed--and you came to my concert. And."  
  
The music is loud, but it doesn't drown out the roaring realization that Taeyeon has a point. Junmyeon never denied any of the allegations his friends had made against Jongdae, about their wedding. He'd sat there silently, listening to music, detaching himself. Of course they'd seen it as agreement. He'd never given them cause to do otherwise.  
  
Junmyeon draws Taeyeon closer so he can whisper into her ear. "It isn't true, Taeyeon. Look, had you been the Crown Princess, we might have even gotten old together," Junmyeon says cautiously. "We might have even been happy. But--but I married Jongdae. And every day is hard with him, I'll admit it."  
  
"Then--"  
  
Junmyeon closes his eyes and raises a finger to quiet her. "But every day I think I'm learning something from him. Every day I think less of running away and more about fixing this entire institution by example. And for that, I need to be King."  
  
"I can quit singing," Taeyeon chokes, eyes rimmed red, "I can quit BOA, if that's what you want. If that's what this was about."  
  
Junmyeon thinks of how beautifully Jongdae belted out those notes in the shower, lyrics lost in the haze of steam. He thinks of the beads along Jongdae's forehead, the bicycle, the shaky confession over breakfast. He remembers Jongdae’s lips against his and the pressure in his chest that Jongdae sometimes manages to alleviate with a smile, and he realizes something. It’s sick and stupid and hopeless, but it’s true.  
  
Junmyeon almost laughs at his own stupidity.  
  
"It isn't about you. Maybe once upon a time, it was," he says honestly. "But I don't want anything from you anymore. I just need him. By my side. Forever."  
  
There's a pause. The music stop momentarily, and the DJ switches tracks. The lights in the club get brighter for a moment, and Taeyeon lunges forward to help Junmyeon pull his cap back down.  
  
"Thank you," he says quietly, ducking away from the light. "I should go."  
  
Taeyeon swallows. "Then--this is it?"  
  
Junmyeon stares at her shoes--tall, expensive, and very fitting. "We'll be graduating soon," he says. "This is it."  
  
"I'll see you on TV, I suppose."  
  
Neither of them need to say _we cannot be friends._ There are things better left in the hollows of conversations, in the shadows of words.  
  
"And you," he replies. "Good luck on your debut. You'll be great."  
  
"They dropped another girl. We're down to nine now. They want to call us _sonyeoshidae_ or something ridiculous."  
  
The banter falls flat. They both feel it. It's the end. It's really the end.  
  
"Good luck," Junmyeon just repeats, ducking out of their alcove as the lights once again dim and the music is cranked up even more sharply. "You'll be great."  
  
The room spins as Junmyeon searches for the exit, squeezing past bodies dancing and drinking and laughing.  
  
It's a shame, he reflects. It really is. Taeyeon had been a good friend. And Junmyeon will always admire Yifan's quiet diplomacy and inner strength. He'll always love Baekhyun's childishness and unrestrained glee around Taeyeon, and always miss Yixing's quiet determination and Zitao's sincerity. They've been good people--selfish, sheltered, and rude, but good people. When Junmyeon reaches the exit, he pauses for a moment at the door and closes his eyes, conjuring up five years of friendship in a breath.  
  
And then he thinks, _thank you._ And then, just as briefly, _goodbye._  
  
  
  
  
  
Sunghwan is waiting for him outside. "Your Highness," he says, bowing. His nose is red. Junmyeon frowns guiltily.  
  
"You could have waited inside the car. It's February--it's freezing. You had no idea how long I'd be."  
  
Sunghwan doesn't reply immediately. He helps Junmyeon into the backseat before sliding into the front of the car and adjusting his rearview mirror. Before he starts the ignition, though, he pauses and swallows. "Are you ready, Your Highness?"  
  
Junmyeon's not sure, honestly. He's not sure what it'll mean to go back to the _goong_. now, like this, looking for Jongdae’s companionship and understanding. He’s fought for years to establish an identity outside of the palace, only to realize that it’d all been a waste. That for as long as he’s the Crown Prince, Junmyeon will never be able to escape the weight of his title. And to embrace it—to return to Jongdae’s side and ask for a moment of silence and warmth and sharing—feels like an admission. Junmyeon thinks that if he returns, he will never escape.  
  
They sit in the car with the engine running. Sunghwan stays silent. Junmyeon watches the night sky grow deep and bodied, populated with pinpricks of stars. It would be easy to stay out here forever. But it may get cold eventually. Junmyeon may get lonely. Junmyeon might meet a series of girls like Kim Taeyeon who love who he was, not who he wants to be.  
  
“I don’t want to be alone,” he whispers finally, hands curling into fists. “Not anymore.”  
  
There is no guarantee, Junmyeon knows, that he'll ever be able to escape to Paris anyway. The King and Queen might find him, drag him back, lock him in his room until he capitulates. The media would humiliate him, of course, and Junmyeon wonders how long it would take for him to break. Probably not long. Unlike Jongdae, Junmyeon has never been particularly resilient to criticism.  
  
“Your Highness?”  
  
A deep breath. And then, "Let's go."  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Jongdae is awake when Junmyeon gets back. He's sitting on Junmyeon's bed, legs kicking against Junmyeon's comforter, thin cotton pajamas clinging to his body. Junmyeon can see every line of his chest through them, can see how much muscle Jongdae's lost since entering the palace. "Where have you been?" he asks, discarding a book and leaning forward, resting his chin on his hands.  
  
Junmyeon doesn't want to answer that. He shucks his shoes, his top, and then his pants in quick succession. Jongdae looks away steadfastly, face flushed. "Oh lovely. Giving me a strip show, are you now? Wonder what the press would say about _that_."  
  
And that's the last straw. Because Junmyeon knows what the media would say. Because Junmyeon's life has been couched in those terms, because he's just said goodbye to his best friends precisely because he can't trust them. Junmyeon stalks over to the bed, places hands along Jongdae's sides, and leans in. "About what?"  
  
"You know." It comes out as a whisper. Junmyeon barely hears it. His stomach clenches and he realizes that he wants Jongdae. He wants to touch him and hold him and _have_ him. All of him.  
  
He leans in and kisses Jongdae sharply, teeth nibbling at his lower lip. "This?"  
  
"You're drunk," Jongdae gasps, breath hitching. "Fuck--I. You're drunk."  
  
"Not too drunk," Junmyeon whispers, composure shattered, trailing kisses down Jongdae's neck, licking at the hollow in Jongdae's shoulder, sucking right below his collarbone until the skin is peppered with tiny pinpricks of red. "Shush." He slides his fingers along the bottom of Jongdae's shirt and slides a hand right belong it, thumb swiping at Jongdae's hip.  
  
"Yes. You're drunk." Jongdae pushes him away, but his hands tremble. Junmyeon grabs one and runs his tongue along the knuckles. He likes the way Jongdae shivers, likes the honesty in Jongdae's reactions, likes the rush of power he feels when Jongdae is in his arms like this. Junmyeon wants to feel it again and again and again.  
  
"So?"  
  
"Is everything okay? I was worried when you left earlier with Sunghwan. And--now I'm still worried. More worried." _You're never like this,_ is the unspoken criticism.  
  
"Don't I pay you enough attention?" He sucks on one of Jongdae's fingers, lips circling around the second joint, teeth scraping at the skin. Jongdae whines, and jolts of electricity spark in Junmyeon's groin. He moves a hand to massage gently at the inside of Jongdae's right thigh.  
  
" _Fuck._ That's not the--can you just stop?" Junmyeon lets up momentarily, letting Jongdae's finger slide out of his mouth. "Look. Do we need to talk?"  
  
"Talk?"  
  
"Don't be stupid. You're drunk and you reek and," Jongdae hesitates, fingers creeping around Junmyeon's cheeks lightly, skittering across his jawline. "And you look really sad. And I'm worried."  
  
Junmyeon's hands find Jongdae's. He pulls them off his face. "I'm not sad." _You're the one who always looks sad._ "I'm fine. I just had a situation I had to take care of."  
  
"You would tell me if something was wrong, though," Jongdae presses.  
  
 _There's not enough space between them_ , Junmyeon thinks suddenly, dizzy and sweaty. He wants to keep touching Jongdae. He breathes in and smells Jongdae's citrus shampoo and feels his heart rate spike. "Of course."  
  
"We're _partners_. I know I haven't done enough studying yet, but eventually we'll be a pair, right? You can rely on me. Even if it's something shitty, you can tell me. You don't need to resort to this."  
  
Jongdae is still pale, still never finishes all the food on his plate, still smiles mutely, moves more carefully around the cameras. But it’s a kind offer. "Yes."  
  
"Go shower. You smell."  
  
"I know." Junmyeon looks up and sees Jongdae's forehead is wrinkled with worry. A surge of affection floods his stomach, and he brushes Jongdae's bangs off his forehead and presses a kiss there--chaste and simple.  
  
"What was that for?"  
  
Junmyeon shrugs. _I like you_ , he finds he can't say. "Going to shower."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They take an early morning train home. Junmyeon sleeps the entire way, wincing against the cabin lights and sharp jostling movements the train makes every so often. Jongdae offers to share his blanket, but Junmyeon refuses. It's cheap-looking. And Jongdae is probably colder than he is.  
  
Junmyeon takes the day off school, feigning exhaustion, mainly to avoid having to talk to Jongdae about the previous evening and his total lack of self-control. Humiliation still simmers hotly in his veins, so he spends the morning shoving his face into his pillows and frustratedly pacing back and forth in his room, alternatively punching cushions and groaning into the palms of his hands.  
  
Had he really tried--with Jongdae? _Drunk._ Fuck, he had. He really, really had.  
  
At some point he gets up and taps a code out on a reader attached to the far wall of his bedroom. A bookcase slides away from the plaster, revealing the darkroom the Queen had built him for his fifteenth birthday. It's been weeks since he's photographed anything of note. There's a photo hanging from a dryline up by a pair of clothespins, though, and when Junmyeon moves to take a closer look he realizes it's the profile picture of Jongdae that he'd brought to Seohandang that day three months ago.  
  
It's a silly picture. Jongdae's hair is smoothed down. His collar is straight. It looks almost nothing like the Jongdae Junmyeon's gotten to know over the past few weeks. He takes it off the line and holds it, fingers tracing the line of Jongdae's jaw in the photo. _We might change the monarchy together, one day_ , he thinks. _If you can manage it. If you can stay with me, I think it might not be all that bad._  
  
The thought feels rebellious. A handful of other pictures are in a stack by the door. Junmyeon picks them up and pages through them--oblique shots of Taeyeon's hair, earrings, and her smile. They're all from hyper-artistic vantage points; Junmyeon had somehow intended on turning the collection into his senior project. He hadn't yet come up with a name for the project and, smiling, Junmyeon figures that was probably a sign.  
  
He tears each and every one to pieces.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jongdae chatters about the events of his day over dinner, casually brushing aside half his food, but Junmyeon finds he can't respond or rebuke Jongdae for it. His heart beats frantically against his ribcage--a pitterpatter of excitement and hysteria. He wonders whether he should tell Jongdae that he's made up his mind, that he's _interested_ , that he wants him. Now, forever. Always. But Sunghwan is taking notes and there are a handful of maid listening in and suddenly Junmyeon wants to confess privately, secretly, as subtly as he can within a palace where even the walls have ears. He’s not even sure how he’ll say it, how he can explain that once upon a time he had ambitions of running away. That now, he might be willing to stay as long as Jongdae agrees to stay with him and keep him warm at night, talk to him about inanities, disagree with his personal philosophies, remind Junmyeon that he’s human.  
  
In the evening after scheduled family activities, they retire to the atrium. Junmyeon grabs a book from his room, Jongdae one from his, and they settle into the two couches positioned next to one another facing the garden. It's a lot more space than yesterday, but it's also not enough, Junmyeon thinks. He feels suffocated, and wonders how best to say, _sit here_ without sounding particularly intense.  
  
"They want me to study the _Analects_. Somehow I think that's at least ninety-nine percent your fault."  
  
Junmyeon raises an eyebrow. "I learned those when I turned fifteen. After I'd finished the _Wu Jing_."  
  
"Would you like a prize, your Royal Highness?" Only Jongdae could make the address sound like an insult, and Junmyeon barely suppresses a grin. Jongdae taps at his copy of the _Analects_. "You don't seen to have taken _ren_ all that seriously--aren't you supposed to avoid creating a false impression of your own importance?"  
  
"I am the Crown Prince."  
  
"In a constitutional monarchy. Congratulations." Jongdae slides his shoes up onto the couch and Junmyeon wonders how many times the court ladies have asked him not to do that.  
  
Junmyeon rolls his eyes and leans across the space separating their chairs, pushing at Jongdae's toes with a finger. "Behave," he warns. "We might find ourselves stuck sharing a room again."  
  
"Like you'd mind after yesterday."  
  
Junmyeon feels his face flush. "I'd mind sleeping on the floor again. I still can't believe I let you do that to me."  
  
"True trooper, you are. What a real sacrifice. I hope the Crown honor your bravery with a medal. Or maybe five." Jongdae sneaks his feet back onto the couch and Junmyeon groans at his gall.  
  
"Jongdae."  
  
  
  


  
art by [meansock](http://meansock.tumblr.com/post/38969974830).

  
  
  
  
Jongdae huffs and lets his feet down, fingers still curled around the manuscript. "I'm cold," he whines. "My toes are going to fall off. I won't be able to attend any official ceremonies, it'll be horrible."  
  
Junmyeon rolls his eyes. "You sound really broken up about that. Get a blanket, if you're cold. Or I'll have someone else bring one."  
  
"I'm still sick--I'm an _invalid_. Can't you get me one?"  
  
"Me?"  
  
Jongdae nods. "So we don't have to call anyone. It's pretty quiet here, with just us." He doesn't mention the three bodyguards with their backs turned, nor does he mentioned the five ladies-in-waiting likely perched outside of the room. Junmyeon smiles, regardless.  
  
Jongdae wants to be alone with him. Maybe--maybe now he can tell him. Honestly. _I like you._ The words sound stiff even in his mind. _I might love you. I do love you. I'm in like with you._  
  
" _Jeoha._ "  
  
It'll have to wait until he's pampered Jongdae sufficiently. "Okay, give me a second." Junmyeon gets up and grabs his phone out of his pocket, using it to prop his book open. He walks into his room and picks the heaviest comforter, then thinks better of it and rummages through his shelves for a heating pad.  
  
Junmyeon goes through two bookcases before realizing that he has absolutely no idea where anything is in his room. He's never had to look for something on his own--he's always called Sunghwan for help.  
  
The blanket will just have to do, then. He picks the thickest, heaviest duvet off his bed, and carries it out into the atrium. As he passes the door he notices a book in the corner about the English monarchy, and wonders whether Jongdae would enjoy the history lesson.  
  
 _Another time,_ he thinks, remembering the _Analects_. But he makes a mental note of it.  
  
Junmyeon closes the door behind him and tosses the blanket over Jongdae's body, now rigid on his couch. "If you curl up under that," Junmyeon advises, "no one will notice that you've put your feet up."  
  
"Your phone rang," Jongdae replies dully.  
  
Junmyeon shrugs before registering Jongdae's sudden discomfort. "Should I answer it?"  
  
"Up to you."  
  
Definitely worried. Junmyeon grabs his phone and flips open the most recent message, fingers shaking when he realizes what it is: a photo. Very low quality, sure, and definitely too blurry for the press's time, but. His fingers tighten around the screen furiously as a wave of dread seeps through his shoulders and bathes his back in cold. "Why the hell are you answering my phone?" It's not what he wants to say, but he also doesn't know how else to explain that his hands are on Taeyeon's arm and his mouth, up against Taeyeon's ear. Because there is no explanation. Junmyeon shouldn't have been there. That shouldn't have happened. "You're sick. You're still sick."  
  
"It rang."  
  
"That's really none of your business."  
  
"I didn't realize you were trying to conduct a super secret affair. Next time I won't pick it up." Jongdae pauses and then laughs bitterly, tossing the blanket off his knees and leaving his copy of _The Analects_ on the couch. "You married me, not her. And I thought we'd come to an agreement. And last night--"  
  
Junmyeon doesn't want to be reminded of last night. "I didn't agree to anything. I was drunk."  
  
"Is that all that was?" Jongdae's voice is frosty and sharp. "Is that really all that was?"  
  
 _No._ But Junmyeon can't say that. Not like this. He'd wanted the admission to be kind and honest and _beautiful_ , not dirty leverage in an argument. Last night might have been the first time he'd ever realized he was more than slightly interested in Jongdae, more than slightly willing to run hands down Jongdae's body, push him deep into the covers, strip him of his shirt and--  
  
He doesn't want to confess like this. He doesn't want to ruin that revelation. He doesn't want to taint it the same way PR muddies down truth with heaps of pretty lies that look lovely in interviews and photographs. This was supposed to be special. "Yes."  
  
Jongdae laughs bitterly before springing up off the sofa, tossing his book and Junmyeon's duvet on the floor. He stalks over to his door and opens it furiously before pausing in the entranceway, body rimmed by the darkness of his bedroom, shoulders slumping unnaturally. Even so, even like that, Junmyeon realizes he thinks Jongdae is beautiful.  
  
"I'm an idiot," he says slowly, "for thinking anything about us could have changed. I was honest with you the night of our _hapbang_. I thought you'd be honest with me in return."  
  
 _I was. I really was._ "You touched my phone. There's really no excuse for that."  
  
Jongdae throws up a hand. "I'm sorry, then. But there's really no need for me to pretend to be friendly with you at home when you can just sneak out and visit your girlfriend. I'm just the trophy husband, aren't I?" Jongdae steps inside his room and pauses. "I still just cannot fucking believe you saw her in _Busan._ After we--when we--" he swallows. And with that, Jongdae closes his door dejectedly.  
  
The atrium is quiet and empty and huge. Junmyeon grabs his phone and considers smashing it.  
  
He doesn't leave that evening, sitting on the couch until long after night falls, waiting for Jongdae to emerge and see proof that Junmyeon's not about to rush off to Taeyeon every chance he gets. He flips through his book restlessly and paces in front of Jongdae's door, willing himself to knock and go inside and explain that it's over, that the photo had been entirely a misunderstanding, that he'd been saying _goodbye_. But Junmyeon reaches into himself and tries to break through years of learned socialization and finds that can't bring himself to do anything at all. It's humiliating.  
  
Junmyeon runs a finger along the wallpaper. And then he stops and closes his eyes. "I don't understand," he whispers. "What am I supposed to do with him?"  
  
Sunghwan clears his throat. "I don't think anyone understands love," he ventures.  
  
The word is terrifying. But Junmyeon smiles bitterly and wonders if Sunghwan isn't usually as wrong as Junmyeon thinks he is.  
  
He taps at Jongdae's door one last time. The carvings in Jongdae's door are heavy and ornate and trap Junmyeon's finger in swirls that go around and around each other in paradoxically overlapping shapes. "Good night," he says, a compromise. "Sleep well."  
  
There's no reply.

♙♟♙

  
  
Jongdae comes to breakfast the next morning with eyes puffy and heavy-lidded, and cheeks splotched with red. Junmyeon bites back an instinctively angry request for Sunghwan to bring him some BB cream and concealer.  
  
Neither of them speak. Junmyeon plows through two cups of coffee and a bowl of soup and rice, all the while watching Jongdae touch none of his dishes, tiredly refusing Sunghwan's offers to exchange the meal for something else.  
  
"I'm not hungry," he insists.  
  
Junmyeon sets his lips.  
  
"You're going to get sick again," Sunghwan insists.  
  
Junmyeon indicates that a server bring him another cup of coffee, hands shaking underneath the table.  
  
"You can't miss any more days of school."  
  
"I'll be okay."  
  
"You will not be okay," Junmyeon hears himself say. His voice feels distant and cold. "Because I am not okay with this. Don't make a fuss. Eat."  
  
"Your Highness, I'm not--"  
  
Jongdae rolls his eyes. "I didn't know you had the emotional capacity to worry about more than one person at once. Color me shocked."  
  
"You're being unfair," Junmyeon says.  
  
"Really. _I'm_ being unfair. Just like _I'm_ presumptuous for asking to leave the palace to visit my home. Just like _I'm_ the problem when people push me down a flight of stairs, furious that an ugly, gay duckling married their precious prince."  
  
An attendant hands Junmyeon his coffee. He hadn't realized that was how Jongdae had gotten the scratches and cuts on his cheek. "I never said any of that."  
  
"It doesn't matter. You're such a _fucking_ hypocrite."  
  
Someone gasps, and someone else drops a plate. The room erupts into stunned chaos. Sunghwan rushes over to the side of the room and dismisses the court personnel crowding around the room, most of whom, Junmyeon is sure, are about to alert the Queen and King, low undercurrents of whispered rumors erupting dangerously in pockets around the _goong_. Nothing is secret here. He bites back his fury.  
  
Eventually, the room goes quiet and cold. Time stops.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jongdae says after a long pause, putting his hands on his head and sighing gently, whole body shivering. "I got too excited. After all this, I just thought--" and he swallows, Adam's apple prominent, "I'm so sorry."  
  
Junmyeon almost can't bring himself to say anything. _For what?_ "We're going to be late." _I'm the one who's sorry._  
  
Jongdae ignores him. "You're an idiot and I fell in love with you. Maybe because I was lonely, maybe because I thought I was supposed to, but probably because you're one of the most earnest, hardest working people I've ever met--including myself. And I'm the top of my class, so that means something."  
  
Junmyeon drops his napkin. _Love._ The world spins and he has to grab at the edges of the table. "You--excuse me?"  
  
"I know how hard you work at being everything this country wants you to be. And I know how much you hate it. And I think you take yourself way too seriously, and I think you're an asshole because of it, and I think you have absolutely no respect for anyone but yourself, and--" Jongdae sniffles, "and I love you anyway."  
  
Junmyeon stares at him. Jongdae swallows and moves on: "And yet--you're always nearby but I can't have you. You're mine and I can't have any of you, because years ago you gave your heart to someone else."  
  
 _I didn't_ , Junmyeon wants to say, He liked Taeyeon because they were so similar he never needed to say anything. He likes Jongdae because they're so different that words explode between the two of them. Junmyeon learns how to communicate again, and Jongdae learns how to read into his deliberately relaxed stiffness. That's who they are. That's who they can be.  
  
"I didn't expect you to like me in turn when I confessed that night. That's not why I confessed. I just wanted to be honest with you and clear the air. But then you kissed me at the Gallery and you started being _nice_ and there were all these mixed signals and--and I know we didn't agree to anything, but you still made me think I had a chance, Junmyeon. And that was cruel."  
  
Junmyeon swallows.  
  
"You asked me to tell you if I really couldn't stand it anymore." Jongdae lowers his eyes and opens his palms and Junmyeon has never seen him look more like a supplicant than now. "Please. I can't stand it anymore. Let me go?"  
  
"Go," Junmyeon repeats. It's a miracle his voice doesn't crack. Everything else in his body feels like shattering. "Go where?"  
  
"Away. Home. I just need to find myself again. I'm not this person, Junmyeon. I thought I could be--I thought I could wear the suits and _hanboks_ and stand by your side regardless of whether or not you liked me because I liked and respected you. But I can't. I guess I'm also stupid. I guess I also need you to care about me." Jongdae laughs and it comes out like a sob. "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to tell you. I was going to let it slide, but I can't. I don't _enjoy_ running into my room hysterically every few days crying over you, you know. It's about as much fun as fainting and having an IV needle threaded underneath your skin."  
  
"You're going to be late," Sunghwan says quietly from the corner. Jongdae ducks out of the room sharply and heads for the atrium. Junmyeon finds he can't move. "You cannot be late," Sunghwan reminds him.  
  
There are appearances to maintain. Junmyeon feels himself get to his feet and wonders whether anything would change if he could follow Jongdae to his room, smash down his door, and tell him he's got it all wrong. That he doesn't hate the way Jongdae curls up around him on their couch, that he doesn't hate Jongdae's breath against his, hipbone digging into Junmyeon's thigh. He doesn't hate the memory of Jongdae's lips against his, mouth hot and heavy. That he might love it, all of it.  
  
 _Let me go._  
  
He’s lost everything, now. This is the end.  
  
Junmyeon sets his napkin down smoothly and follows Sunghwan out of the hall.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
Jongdae doesn't skip school. He ignores Junmyeon all day, refuses to meet with him between classes, engaging in excited, distracting conversation with classmates every time he notices Junmyeon approaching. But there's a lifelessness in his eyes and hands that he can't disguise, and it cuts at Junmyeon slowly and deliberately. Junmyeon daydreams through all of his classes, speaks to absolutely no one, and then finds, to his frustration, that Jongdae's even managed to avoid sharing a car back home by slipping out an hour early and requesting to be taken home.  
  
Junmyeon knows Jongdae deserves his space. And he knows that this isn't something he can fix with an apology. He promised Jongdae a divorce. He's the Crown Prince. He keeps his promises.  
  
And yet.  
  
Jongdae doesn't come to dinner. He attends the evening's poetry reading, though, and participates when he's asked for his opinion. No one notices that his face is even more withdrawn than usual, or that his hands are clean, spotless, and his clothes are perfectly pressed. Junmyeon realizes that Jongdae's wildness is a litmus test for his feelings--for how safe and open he thinks he can be, and he misses the sharp, messy, sarcastic asshole he'd bumped into that very first day in Seohandang Hall. He feels hysteria bubble in his chest and realizes that Jongdae's become one of the thousands of economic reports he's handed every week: a distressing result of a problem Junmyeon has no power to solve.  
  
His hands becomes fists in the darkness, and Junmyeon almost forgets how to breathe.  
  
The King dismisses them at nine, and Sunghwan reminds them all of an interview the family will be giving the next morning. The King and Queen smile, and the Queen Mother congratulates Jongdae on his newfound popularity. The words sting, and it takes Junmyeon a moment to remember that they'd been awarded numerous accolades for their charity work while in Busan, and that this isn't a cruel reminder of the pictures from the club floating around school. Someone had circulated them--probably not to be cruel, but just to spread word of having seen Junmyeon out of his element. Another failure, another time Junmyeon had forgotten that he can never show any weakness in public.  
  
But Junmyeon's relieved to see the rumors haven't reached the press. Sometimes rumors stay hidden, secret rumors. Often they don't, but this time, Junmyeon thinks, thanks to the low resolution of the photographs and Taeyeon's staunch denial of their veracity, this time they were lucky.  
  
Jongdae pales regardless.  
  
Junmyeon doesn't sleep that night. He paces his room in the darkness, teeth worrying at his thumb until the skin puckers red and begins to bleed. Even then, Junmyeon finds he's too distracted to care. He has a choice to make, he knows. He can abdicate and grant Jongdae's request, leaving the throne to someone who might do a better job of it, or he can refuse to let Jongdae go. Once upon a time the choice would have been simpler. Once upon a time he wouldn't remember the ditches he'd dug in Busan and the face Jongdae had made when he talked about Junmyeon's recent paper on communal responsibility for economic reform. _You'll be a great King,_ Jongdae had said. And Junmyeon had begun to believe it.  
  
But Junmyeon also wants to be a great person. He closes his eyes just as dawn breaks, light bleeding in through the windowpanes, bulletproof glass distorting the colors. He remembers Jongdae's hair gleaming gold in the school hallway lights when they'd met for the first time. He remembers kissing Jongdae in front of dozens of reporters. He remembers Jongdae's head on his lap and Jongdae's thigh against his and the warmth suffusing the atrium between their rooms when Jongdae is there, gracing them with his presence. It's a choice, Junmyeon realizes, that isn't a choice at all.  
  
He sits down on his bed and cradles his head in his hands. Hundreds of princes have lived here before him, he knows, and just as many have probably died in this very room. Junmyeon wonders what they thought about, what they dreamed about, whether they lived their lives out as terrified and desperately lonely as he is now. Whether the people that they loved were equally as lonely. Whether they loved at all.  
  
Junmyeon can’t do anything for Korea, but can do something for Jongdae. And that’s all that matters, now, he realizes. It’s the only thing in the world.  
  
The palace attendants knock on his door at seven. He rises, dismisses them, and begins to prepare for the day.  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
As it's Jongdae's first official television appearance, he's whisked away before breakfast to be outfitted and have his hair and makeup done. So Junmyeon doesn't get to tell him about the decision he's made until they're in the waiting room of the broadcasting station with the rest of the family. He grabs Jongdae's wrist and rests fingers on his pulse, admiring the job Jongdae's stylists have done. Jongdae's dressed in a fitted black sports jacket with plunging lapels and a thick collar. His shirt is light pink and the stylists had chosen a starkly black silk cravat to go with his jacket. His pants are slightly more casual--fitted dark grey with black cross stitching. He looks like royalty, and Junmyeon feels his composure unknot.  
  
"I'll take care of it," he whispers, hesitant of drawing the Queen or Queen Mother's attention. He knows he'll have to tell them eventually, but now is not the time. Not when they've all got microphones strapped to their cheeks, taped down with clear plasters. "What we spoke about the other day--it's not going to be easy, but I thought of a way."  
  
Jongdae doesn't respond. Junmyeon moves to elaborate, but the host appears backstage and welcomes them in and they're live, cameras rolling, and Junmyeon's honesty evaporates. He straightens his back and proffers his arm and Jongdae rests his fingers delicately on the crook of Junmyeon's elbow and gets up all on his own. The show of independence is both terrifying and comforting. Junmyeon watches Jongdae mess up his perfectly styled hair by brushing a hand against the shell of his ear and then they're in front of a carefully selected audience of hundreds of people, spotlights blurring out the clarity in Junmyeon's vision.  
  
Junmyeon watches Jongdae's face remain placid and calm. Amazing, Junmyeon thinks. It'd taken him years of practice not to shy away from rolling cameras. Once again, Jongdae's managed to awe him.  
  
The interviewer starts out with questions for the King and Queen Mother. They answer jovially, words Junmyeon has heard so many times before he doesn't even register them, too busy counting down the seconds until the focus will be on him and the Prince Consort.  
  
"--so we've heard a lot about your turbulent relationship." The audience titters. "But we've never heard how you met, or how the prince discovered that he was gay."  
  
Jongdae stiffens. Junmyeon slides a hand between them and interlinks their fingers carefully. _I got bullied because I'm gay._  
  
Junmyeon smiles easily. "We met at school. Jongdae was--is a remarkable student. It was hard not to take notice of him."  
  
"So you were dating in school? How did you run into each other if you were in different departments?"  
  
Outside room 142, sun setting, light suffusing Jongdae's hair with gold. "After school. We met outside of a classroom." Each word carefully chosen to straddle the boundaries of truth and lies. Junmyeon doesn't want to lie to Jongdae anymore. He doesn't want to turn their relationship into yet another lie. Not when there's so little time left.  
  
"And then what?" The interviewer leans over, hands on his knees. "You met and decided to get married right away? It was that easy of a decision?"  
  
"No," Junmyeon says. "Of course not. But I was of the appropriate age. It wasn't unusual for me. For the Prince Consort--it was a huge sacrifice. He left his home, his family, and many of his friends behind when he entered the palace. He was the one who made the decision--I just went along with it."  
  
"Is that so?" The interviewer turns to Jongdae. Junmyeon feels him straighten in his seat.  
  
"It was my choice to marry him. And why wouldn't I?" Jongdae smiles a little helplessly, and Junmyeon heart tightens. "He's perfect."  
  
The audience laughs again. The interview croons about how romantic the pair looks, sitting on a couch, thighs touching, practically inseparable. Blood thunders in Junmyeon's ears. _Real or not real?_ he wonders. _Real or not real?_  
  
"And I respect him for that decision," Junmyeon reminds them. "For choosing to be with me. I," _love him_ Junmyeon wants to say, wants to confess, wants to break through the flimsy gauze of pretension about the interview and grab Jongdae's face in his hands and apologize with the world _I love you, i finally love you_ again and again until his lungs run out of air. His voice stops, the interviewer shrugs, and someone calls for a commercial break.  
  
The lights are turned off, Junmyeon still frozen in his chair, eyes trained on Jongdae's profile. And then Jongdae swallows, wrenches his hands out of Junmyeon's grip, and walks off.  
  
The moment shatters. It's the atrium all over again, it's Jongdae's back turned, it's a huge gulf of space separating their bodies, it's Junmyeon's selfishness driving them apart.  
  
"I love you," he whispers. And then, springing off his seat, crossing the floor and slamming the backstage door open, grabbing Jongdae's wrist in front of the rest of the royal family, "I'll give it to you. A divorce."  
  
Jongdae turns to Junmyeon, horror etched into his face. Junmyeon bites his lip, takes a deep breath, and then continues, "The Queen Mother owes me one favor. In return for my cooperation during the wedding, she granted me one wish. I'll spend it on you. I'll let you go."  
  
" _Junmyeon._ "  
  
And something shatters in Junmyeon's chest. Jongdae doesn't look pleased but he doesn't look unhappy either, and the rest of the room has been stunned into silence. _This is the real me,_ Junmyeon thinks. _This is your Crown Prince. Unworthy. Useless. Scared._  
  
It's the Queen who reacts first, stalking across the room, palm raised to Junmyeon's cheek. For one terrifying moment, he imagines that she's about to hit him. He feels his face flinch as her hand swoops down and--  
  
\--pulls the microphone off his face.  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh _shit._  
  
No one speaks. Sunghwan ducks out of the room to allegedly start smoothing matters over, speaking to the show host in an attempt to contain the problem. And then the lights are cut, everyone is yanking microphones off their bodies, and the King starts shaking with fury.  
  
"Get out," he spits, almost incoherent with rage. "Get out of my sight. I don't want to see you until I thought this through. A Crown Prince-- _divorce_ \--on _air_ \--I--"  
  
The Queen rushes to grab the King's arm as he staggers and slumps into a chair. "Aren't you leaving?" she shrieks, voice high and hysterical.  
  
Junmyeon bows, heart thumping and turns on his heels. Within seconds he's outside, surrounded by flashing cameras, by interviewers begging for an explanation, by onlookers shouting things that could either be congratulations or insults. Junmyeon can't hear, can't think, can't even see straight. He pushes someone aside limply. "Move," he hears himself say, voice hoarse and dull.  
  
And then, " _Move,_ " in a voice that certainly isn't his, that's loud and clear and ringing with confidence. There's a hand at his shoulder. "We will be leaving now. You may address your questions to the PR department."  
  
The sea of reporters part before them almost reverently, heads bowed. Finally, Junmyeon thinks. Finally they get it. Jongdae is finally demanding the respect he deserves.  
  
He's bundled into the back of an empty car. Jongdae shuts the doors, locks the windows, and then turns to Junmyeon furiously. "Did you plan that?"  
  
The world is still buzzing. Junmyeon massages at his forehead. "Just," he tries dizzily, "give me a second."  
  
"You can have five," Jongdae jokes. It falls flat. Junmyeon shivers. The entire world might have heard him agree to divorce Jongdae. They would have had to find out eventually, but he hadn't expected his world to fall apart like that. There had never before been a gay couple in the _goong_ before. There had also never been a divorce in the entire history of the royal family. Junmyeon hadn't expected to singlehandedly destroy thousands of years of tradition before his twentieth birthday.  
  
"I'm sorry," Junmyeon says. Oddly enough, the words are easy to say. "I didn't mean to humiliate you."  
  
"Humiliate?" Jongdae digs his fingers into his hair and tears it out of its careful slick updo, shaking his bangs out until they cover his forehead again. "Junmyeon, I just. Did you plan for it to happen--like that? Microphone on? That exact speech?"  
  
A lot of conversations today, Junmyeon thinks, are beginning to sound extremely familiar. "Don't be an idiot. I forgot about the mics."  
  
"So it was true. All of it."  
  
"Yes. I'll give you a divorce."  
  
"No," Jongdae says, "before that. The part where you said you respected me. The part where you said you loved me."  
  
Junmyeon turns and looks at Jongdae, properly this time. His eyes are smudged with kohl and his face is plastered in BB cream and his hair is standing every which way on edge and his cravat is entirely askew and he looks a wreck and Junmyeon just want to _touch him_. "Yes."  
  
"Say it. Say it again."  
  
Junmyeon places a hand on Jongdae's cheek and races the line of his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Jongdae's eyelashes look extraordinarily long from this close a vantage point, he thinks as he closes his eyes and leans in, lightly brushing his lips against Jongdae's. And at first that's all it is, lips against lips, just the slightest pressure. And then Jongdae pushes himself into it, opens his lips, and the heat between their bodies intensifies. Suddenly there's skin against Junmyeon's stomach and the back of his neck and his mouth is edging open and Jongdae's is kissing and sucking at Junmyeon's bottom lip and there's a tongue poking at the edges of his teeth and part of a seatbelt digging into his thigh. _I love you_ , Junmyeon thinks, consumed by the warmth flooding his body. _I love you._ "I love you."  
  
Jongdae pulls away slowly, breathing heavily. "Really? Me, this time?"  
  
"It's always been you," Junmyeon says, hand still cupping Jongdae's cheek. "It's why I wasn't going to keep you here. You're the worst Prince Consort I could have."  
  
Jongdae raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Someone I love," Junmyeon clarifies. "Someone I'm trapping inside the _goong_."  
  
Jongdae shakes his head slowly. "I made that choice, remember? I walked here on my own two feet."  
  
Another surge of affection and respect. Junmyeon almost laughs. He’s just made a fool of the both of them in front of the country, he’s fucked up the months of goodwill they’d been cultivating in front of the camera, and his disgraced himself. And yet, somehow, he doesn’t _care_. He’s happy. He can fix this. It’s not an insurmountable problem.  
  
“I love you,” he repeats. He gives life to the words all on his own. As the _seja_. As Junmyeon. As both and neither. As Jongdae’s husband. “Thank you.”  
  
And Jongdae smiles and his face lights up. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” he admits, “so I could tell you that it has always been my pleasure.”  
  


♙♟♙

  
  
The palace is thrown into turmoil. Press camp outside the gates, Junmyeon and Jongdae are confined to their quarters, and even the PR department finds itself at a loss, issuing hysterical internal memos that trail off mid-sentence and revise positions halfway through. After three days of complete radio silence, Jongdae sneaking into Junmyeon’s room when no one is looking, the two of them playing cards or reading books or kissing just to dispense with the eerie weight of the atmosphere, the two of them are summoned to present themselves to the elders of the royal family.  
  
Jongdae grabs Junmyeon’s hand as they walk solemnly through the halls. _I’m here,_ Junmyeon hears. It’s not the least bit appropriate, but it’s comforting. There will a lot they will have to apologize for, Junmyeon thinks, but this shouldn’t be one of them.  
  
When they enter the room, Junmyeon finds himself surprised by how calm his parents seem. The Queen is sipping at a cup of tea, the King is reposing on a chaise, and the Queen Mother’s hands are clasped firmly in her lap. Junmyeon feels their solemnity seep through him and straightens his back. This is a war, he knows, but not with the people inside of this room. He realizes, for the very first time, that it is likely just as hard for them to watch him suffer as it had been for him to watch Jongdae suffer. That they’re all human, however much they’ve learned to sublimate their emotions and put the Crown above all else. The Queen is still Junmyeon’s mother.  
  
And he’s almost sorry for having disappointed her.  
  
Jongdae and Junmyeon make their bows before being seated and served with tea and crumpets. Junmyeon smiles slightly when Jongdae grabs at his cup and starts sipping loudly, and wonders how much of that is just another show to set the elders at ease.  
  
It works. The Queen sets her cup down and sighs. “With the help of Parliament, we’ve come to a decision. The Crown will not sanction a divorce.”  
  
“That’s okay,” Jongdae says, stuffing a crumpet into his mouth. “We’re good on that front. No need. We’ve worked it all out.”  
  
The Queen rolls her eyes. Junmyeon almost gapes at the sight. “Our _concern_ is the public’s reaction, of course. So we shall be having you each issue formal apologies by the end of the day.”  
  
Junmyeon narrows his eyes. It’s easy. Too easy. “And?”  
  
The Queen clears her throat and then turns helplessly to the Queen Mother who shifts uncomfortably and says, flatly, “The Prince Consort will be sent to Paris.”  
  
There’s a silence. Jongdae coughs. “For how long? I don’t really speak French. Is Junmyeon coming?”  
  
“No,” the Queen Mother replies gently, more gently than Junmyeon’s ever heard her speak in her entire life. “You’ll be sent alone. For…quite some time. Until the fervor wears off.”  
  
“Quite…some…”  
  
Junmyeon slams his fist into the arm of his chair. “Absolutely not. I refuse.”  
  
“This is not for you to refuse, _seja_ ,” the Queen says. “The decision has already made, and the Consort’s bags have been packed. We've spoken to his parents. They understand.”  
  
“He’s my Consort, _my_ responsibility. I refuse to let him go to Paris.” Junmyeon feels himself shake. After all this—after everything—Jongdae will be the one sent away. Junmyeon will be left alone again. His punishment for opening up, for trying to be more than just the Crown Prince, was this. Isolation.  
  
He never should have started anything, he thinks, chest tight. His cheeks feel damp. He wonders if he’s crying. “Please,” and his voice cracks. “You cannot send Jongdae away from me.”  
  
“Someone has to take responsibility, _seja._ And it cannot be you. Not if you want to be King someday.”  
  
“I’d rather not be King, then.” It sounds whiny and juvenile, Junmyeon knows, but it’s true. He would rather not be king if it means sending Jongdae to Paris. “Find Minseok. Bring him back from Europe.”  
  
“Your cousin is not in line for the throne. This is your duty, not his. And he’s lived outside the palace for far too long. He would never be able to make this his home.” The Queen stares at Junmyeon and Junmyeon realizes that her hair is unkempt and her makeup is faded. There are cracks in her façade. They’re all delicate, on the verge of falling apart. They’re all invested—they all _heard_ Junmyeon’s confession.  
  
Perhaps he won’t be alone in the palace. Perhaps he’ll have his mother, his father, and his grandmother. It's a surprising thought, especially when they've just been the Queen, King, and Queen Mother for so long. He wipes at his face. “Still.”  
  
Jongdae puts a hand on Junmyeon’s thigh. Everyone, thankfully, pretends not to notice the indulged intimacy. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll go.”  
  
Junmyeon twists in his seat. “I did not say you could go.”  
  
“Thank you,” the King murmurs. “We appreciate your service.”  
  
Jongdae bows, digging his nails into Junmyeon’s leg. “May we be excused?”  
  
“Sunghwan has all the arrangements. Your flight is this afternoon. You can take anything you like, but we recommend you bring all of your accoutrements. Your budget will be,” the Queen winces, “limited. Given your status.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“Then go,” the Queen says with a smile, so soft Junmyeon almost misses it, “enjoy your last few hours.”  
  
“Thank you,” and Jongdae bows again, back straight, shoulders stiff, exuding royalty. Junmyeon feels his stomach fall out and wonders if he’s falling in love all over again. “Then we’ll be going.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Junmyeon lets Jongdae tug him out of the room and drag him into a small sitting area a few feet away. The palace is deathly quiet, already, Junmyeon thinks, mourning the dismissal of their prince. The _goong_ has fallen in love with Jongdae, Junmyeon realizes, just like he has. And, surrounded by velvets and brocaded silks, hair sticking up at all ends, Jongdae looks like he loves it too.  
  
Junmyeon's chest tightens.  
  
“I’ll do this for you,” Jongdae says quietly, hands linked behind his back. “I haven’t been able to do anything for you thus far. And this was my problem, my mess. I want to do this for you.”  
  
“Jongdae—“  
  
“Please, Junmyeon.”  
  
Junmyeon’s voice cracks. “I hate this.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I hate the monarchy.” Jongdae is three steps away from him, Junmyeon sees. Exactly the prescribed distance the palace rules suggest is most appropriate. Probably something he learned from Confucious. Junmyeon regrets giving him those books.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I want to change it. I don’t want any other Crown Prince to live like I’ve lived.” The ceiling in this room is low, and the windows are tall. It looks out onto one of the hundreds of flowerbeds around the palace.  
  
Jongdae steps forward, unhesitant. “I know.” Jongdae looks beautiful, light highlighting his cheekbones, suit skimming the lines of his body. Junmyeon feels his determination waver.  
  
“I have to become King.” _Which means you have to go. In my place._  
  
Jongdae kisses him. “I know. And you will be a great one.”  
  
The faith Jongdae has in him is almost intoxicating, overwhelming. "I'm not worth you," Junmyeon says honestly, watching Jongdae's hands smooth down his jacket. "You're much stronger than anyone could ever imagine."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous. You're the strong one. You were just too stuck up your own--"  
  
" _Jongdae_."  
  
Jongdae shushes him. "Don't interrupt. Fine, you were too preoccupied to realize that you don't have to be perfect. Whatever you've done and whatever you do--it's enough. You've given up so much already. The country loves you. They love you as you are. And if they don't--"  
  
"If they don't?"  
  
" _I_ love you. And that should be enough."  
  
It won't be enough. In the months to come, Junmyeon will be under more scrutiny than the Royal Family's had to endure for generations. He'll be ridiculed internationally--the prince who couldn't keep one boy happy enough to keep his mouth shut in public. The first prince of Korea to ever contemplate divorce. The biggest royal scandal of the century--making more headlines than Kate Middleton's nude photos.  
  
Junmyeon leans down and kisses Jongdae softly, fingers tangling behind his neck, tongue licking lazily into his mouth. It won't be enough, Junmyeon knows. It couldn't be.  
  
But it'll be something.  
  
“I’ll miss you,” Junmyeon says, voice cracking. He wonders why those words had once been so hard to say when he means them--when he's meant them all along. “I’ll miss you so much.”  
  
“I’ll be back,” Jongdae promises. “And maybe then we can begin again. Go on a date. A real one.”  
  
Junmyeon recalls the first exchange they’d shared as a couple. “Shall I take you to the school cafeteria?”  
  
“Don’t be stupid.”  
  
Junmyeon smiles and grabs Jongdae by the shoulders. It might be years before they see each other again. The public has a notoriously long memory for scandal. Junmyeon will have to work that much harder to regain their favor and remind them that he will be a good king, and he will do great things for the country. He’s not sure he’ll manage it, but Jongdae’s sure. And Junmyeon, oddly, finds it very easy to believe in Kim Jongdae.  
  
The sun filters light through the tempered glass windowpanes. Junmyeon leans in, closes his eyes, and remembers the first time they’d ever met.  
  
“Do you know who I am?” he whispers.  
  
Jongdae laughs and his breath skitters across Junmyeon’s face. Junmyeon feels every nerve buzz. “No," Jongdae says. "Remind me.”  
  
So Junmyeon does.  
  


♔♚♔

  
  
(Many, many years later, the world calls it the love story of the century. They aren't wrong.)

**Author's Note:**

> The original author's note noted that my translations from the analects came from [this](http://www.acmuller.net/con-dao/analects.html), and thanked a number of people: sam, liz, and c. The story was dedicated to whatthekey@lj.


End file.
